All We Want
by winter machine
Summary: A challenging patient provides the catalyst for an unlikely reconciliation. Season 3 Addek, the only kind I've yet to try, following episode 3.05, "Oh, the Guilt." Other canon characters will appear if I continue. Please read author's notes at the beginning of the story for details and warnings.
1. that word

**_A/N:_** My name is winter, and I have a problem. That problem is that I can't resist a good prompt. A whole bunch of people on Flip the Script suggested working in something in season 3 that included Derek learning about Addison's abortion. Season 3 is such a brutal season that a reconciliation seems almost impossible, but I decided I want to try to make it happen. So I'm starting with the abortion side of the prompt.

This is an **Addek reconciliation** story. That means if I continue it, it's going to take some time, and a lot of steps (probably both forward and back). The story starts just after 3.05, "Oh, the Guilt" and goes AU from there. I'd like to continue the story if there's interest.

Oh, and I'm writing in the first person for the first time. It's not my usual choice, but I wanted to try something new.

 **Be advised that this story will deal with the topic of abortion.** As always, my intent with sensitive topics is to deal with them in a sensitive manner. Feel free to PM me with questions or concerns.

PS Every writer on this site is a human being spending unpaid time entertaining you for free. Most of you reading? **You're fantastic and I am so grateful.** The rare but consistent few - please stop leaving rude anonymous reviews complaining about _things disclosed in the summary_ , and without reading the story. I've seen it happen on my stories and on other stories. And it's pointless. And annoying. Not cool. Thanks!

* * *

 **All We Want** _  
.._

 _I know that that may have been my one chance to get pregnant, but still, for me, it was the right decision at the time._ (Addison)

 _All I want is Seattle. I want Seattle … and I want never to see you again._ (Derek)  
..

* * *

"Derek…"

My tone is tentative; I can't help it. It's the first time I've been this close to him since he looked at me with those ice cold imitations of the soft blue eyes I used to love and said he never wanted to see me again.

He glances up from the chart he's holding, his eyes skating over me like a stranger's.

"Dr. Montgomery," he responds coolly.

 _Dr. Montgomery? Seriously. You haven't called me that since medical school, when you'd whisper it in my ear if I started to freak out studying for finals, to cheer me up. To get me excited for the future. By the time we were interns you liked to call me Dr. Shepherd instead even though it was premature. I would say, I haven't actually said yes yet, and you'd say oh, but you will say yes, I know you'll say yes. And I did, of course. I did say yes. When you asked me, I said yes._

I swallow, willing my eyes to be as empty and impersonal as his. "I need a consult." I'm forcing my voice to stay even and it's mostly working. "On a pregnant patient who's just learned her baby is ancephalic."

"How far-"

"21.6."

"Twenty-one weeks." He frowns. "Almost twenty-two. And she's just learning this now?"

"She hasn't had any prenatal care, came in through trauma after a minor car accident. The baby's fine," I add. "Or as … fine as an ancephalic baby can be."

"Okay." He studies me for a moment. "Why do you need me?"

 _I don't know, I just know I do need you, and the thought of never seeing you again – even if I deserve it – is tearing me apart._

"I'm not getting through to them. They _–_ the patient and the baby's father _–_ they feel guilty about not having prenatal care, and they're not hearing me about the medical aspects of ancephaly. I think if you explain the baby's condition to them, you're neuro, maybe they'll be able to-"

"Fine," he says shortly.

"Okay. Thanks." I give him the room number and he agrees to meet me in ten minutes. Of course he won't walk up there with me. It's too close to actually … spending time with me, I guess. Tolerating my presence. Would that count as cheating on his girlfriend?

For a minute it's almost funny, thinking that a consult on a case that's depressing even by my standards would be a date.

But then I remember walking into Dorie Russell's room together, what seems like forever ago but was only a few months ago really, introducing him and not really managing to keep the pride out of my voice. We were medical students together, months out of college, didn't even know how to hold a scalpel – can you really blame me for not being able to hide what it feels like to walk into a room together at the top of our respective professions?

(He could blame me, I know. He can blame me for anything.)

I'm waiting for him outside the patient's room when he strides up and he looks almost disappointed, like he was hoping to see me as little as possible.

 _I want Seattle, and I want never to see you again,_ that's what he said, so I shouldn't be surprised. But even things you expect can still sting.

"Are you going to do it?"

"What?" I turn around at his question.

He gestures with his head toward the patient's room. "If she doesn't want to carry to term."

"She hasn't decided yet."

"But if she does…"

"I'm a provider, you know that."

 _You used to say you were proud of me. I would tell you about the heartbreaking cases, and you would say, "I'd do it too, if I could." But you couldn't do it, so you never had to decide whether you would do it. And the thing is … that's the hardest thing. The part you didn't have to do. Deciding is the hardest thing of all._

"But she's …"

"21.6?" I fill it in so he won't have to. "I know. That gives me seven days until the viability clock."

He cocks his head slightly, preparing to say something and I don't think I want to hear it so I just reach for the doorknob instead.

"She's waiting for us," I tell him and he nods; we walk into the room at the same time.

…but not together.

"Hannah, this is Dr. Shepherd, he's our head of neurosurgery. He's going to tell you a little bit more about your son's condition, okay?"

She nods, glancing at her boyfriend, who's sitting as close to the bed as he can get, clasping her hand. I know guilt and I can read it in his dark eyes: _what if,_ he's thinking, _what if we'd gotten prenatal care._

But there's no place for _if_ in treatment, just _right now._ Just decisions that get harder and harder the longer you wait.

"I get it," Hannah says, after Derek is done explaining – in layman's terms, compassionately, he's always had a good bedside manner.

(At patients' bedsides, that is. At home, after a while, it started to leave something to be desired.)

"…I get it, doctor, and it sounds ... awful."

She shudders and her boyfriend rests a hand on her shoulder.

"I don't want my son to suffer," she says slowly. "Right, Tad? We don't want…" her voice trails off. "Can you tell me again, doctor? What you would do, I mean, if we..."

Gently, sympathetically, professionally, I walk through them through the procedure again. Step by step. I explain the way I will medically stop the baby's heart. I explain that his life will end while he's still inside her womb. I explain the technique to open her cervix, the process I will use to deliver their child into their arms.

"And then we can hold him?"

"And then you can hold him. You can spend as much time with him as you'd like."

"Okay." Her voice sounds thick with tears, and she wipes some of them away. "But if I want to, um, to wait and then like … have him the normal way…."

"You can do that," I say quietly.

"And he'll be … alive."

Now isn't the time for a complex debate on the nature of life, on what her son's life will be like when he emerges from the womb.

"That's right. And you can hold him, and spend time with him, for as long as you like."

"But he'll die." She covers her face with her hands.

"How long?" Her boyfriend asks the question this time, before I can respond to Hannah. His voice is husky like he's been crying; we've been over the statistics but I can't blame them for needing to hear it again.

"About half of the babies with your son's condition won't survive birth. The babies who survive the birthing process usually live a few hours longer. Maybe a few days."

They're both crying now, faces turned in towards each other. I stand there bearing witness; it's part of the job.

"But I saw him." Hannah's voice is muffled by tears. "The pictures, I … he looks like a real baby."

"He _is_ a real baby," her boyfriend says fiercely. "He's our son."

"But he's suffering, Tad. He's going to suffer."

"He can still live. A little, that's what the doctor said."

Their conversation is private; I start to say something, to give them some time, but then Hannah asks me a question. Except her words are even more muffled now; not by tears, it sounds like she's underwater.

There's nothing I can say that will help, anyway. All I can say are the words that you say, when you do this.

 _This is an incredibly difficult time, I know, and I'm here to help._

"Dr. Montgomery - Addison," Derek's tone cuts through the haze more than his words do.

"What-"

"Ms. Fowler asked you a question."

"Sorry," I say automatically. _When in doubt, apologize._ "I'm sorry, Hannah. Can you repeat the question?"

"I was asking, will it hurt him? The baby, I mean. If you … do it. The, um. The thing, I mean."

She can't say the word. No one ever wants to say the word. I haven't said it yet, not this whole time I've been in the room. My own excuse is that the patient doesn't want to hear it.

Now I just give Hannah my most neutral, sympathetic look, and open my mouth to start a speech I've given before. A difficult speech, but a necessary one.

Except instead of the words I expect to hear come out of my mouth – _this is an incredibly difficult time for you, I know, and I'm here to help. I can tell you what medicine and science say, and I will do that. I'll explain absolutely everything I can. But ultimately it's your decision -_ it's just more muffled sounds, like I'm underwater again.

"Addison," Derek says sharply, raising an eyebrow. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, his lips barely move, but eleven years of marital shorthand make it easy for me to know what he's saying: _what the hell is wrong with you?_

My lips part; the thing is, they're so dry, suddenly, I'm not sure they can produce words. And I realize I haven't said anything at all. I hear talking, I hear a voice, but it's not mine.

 _Dr. Shepherd, Addison, are you all right? Take some deep breaths._

I'm planning to respond. I am. "I'm fine," that's what I'll tell Derek and then I'll apologize to Hannah and her boyfriend and get on with it.

 _Just take some deep, slow breaths. It's not uncommon to feel dizzy, afterwards._

"I'm…"

 _This is perfectly normal. Nice, slow breaths._

"…"

There's a tapping in my skull, a pulsing. Like a heartbeat … where the brain should be.

 _In and out._

"I … can't, I'm sorry."

I turn on my heel, the impression of Derek's quizzical face, Hannah's and her boyfriend's confused ones, burned onto my mind like a fizzled-out photograph; the tap, tap in my skull turns into the actual sound of my shoes slapping the hallway when I flee down the hallway.

All I can think of is getting space, air.

 _Good air in, bad air out. There you go._

I bang open the first door that seems promising and then I'm surrounded by the musty smell of cardboard boxes and the piercing lemon scent of harsh floor cleaner. I make it about ten steps into the supply closet before I need to stop and I stand on the far wall, leaning my head against a half-full box of syringe packets.

So intent am I on figuring out how to breathe again that I don't even realize I forgot to close the door.

There's a half-moon of light cutting across the linoleum floor and wafting over my trembling hands; it widens, without warning, splashing more light across my folded arms. I have a sudden memory of playing hide-and-seek with my brother as a kid, back when I thought hiding your face meant you actually couldn't be seen; he'd throw me a bone and pretend to have a hard time locating me when I was standing in full view, only my face covered by heavy brocade curtains or my own pudgy little hands.

We're supposed to be beyond that by the time we're pushing forty, right?

But I'm still hoping he won't see me.

"Addison..."

 _So much for hope._ Which I should really know by now.

When I don't turn around he speaks again: "What's wrong with you?"

It's the kind of phrasing that could sound like anything, depending on the tone – an accusation, shouted angrily – we've definitely done that; a sincere inquiry, murmured gently – we've done that too. This one is neutral, a stranger's question when someone you don't care about has a problem

A doctor's question for his patient.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

The words fall half into the sleeves of my lab coat and half into a cardboard supply box, but … I'm fine.

He's still here, though; I can hear him breathing.

"Are you … sick?"

I wish I could say yes. Sickness, we can fix. Medicine, we can handle. This, though …

"I'm fine," I say without turning around. "Just go. You don't have to do the thing where you pretend to care what's wrong."

"Addison, I'm standing here asking you what's wrong. What the hell else do you want from me?" He sounds exhausted; I feel the same way.

"Nothing, Derek, I don't want anything from you. You said you never wanted to see me again," I remind him.

"What did you expect when you told me you lied to me for months about your – what _do_ you expect, Addison?"

"I don't know."

"You never do. You just know you're not getting it. Nothing's ever enough for you."

 _Here we go_. Shouldn't signing the divorce papers mean he can't tear me apart anymore? Except he can do it without any effort at all … he's always been able to.

"Addison," he says softly, his tone very different now, pronouncing my name with concern ... almost like he cares.

See, the problem is, it's not just that he can tear me apart; he's also always been able to put me back together, too. Like no one else has, before or since.

"Just go." I have to sound dismissive and cold because I can't break down. Not now and not with him. I need this supply closet and I need it to myself so I can gather the strength to go back in there with my patient and do what needs to be done, no matter how much it hurts.

"You're not coming back to talk to your patient?" He sounds so judgmental. Derek would never leave a patient like that. Calm, cool, collected – that's him.

"I can't."

"You can't." He sounds somewhere between bored and annoyed now. "Why is that?"

"I can. I will, but just … give me a minute."

"What's wrong with you?"

It's the same words as before, except now he sounds even more annoyed. So much for concern; I've wasted his precious time.

"Nothing, I said I'm fine."

"Clearly," he says, his tone sarcastic.

I inhale the stale scent of the cardboard boxes around me and try to focus on my breathing; I'm not going to cry.

 _Good air in, bad air out._

"Forget it. I'm leaving, you can have the whole supply closet to yourself to sulk."

I still haven't turned around but I can feel the way he's looking me over with disgust and I wish it didn't hurt. The problem is … he doesn't know the half of it yet.

"Just leave."

I hear the knob start to turn.

"You know, Addison, you complained I never paid attention to you and now when I – forget it, you know what? You don't get to manipulate me anymore. We're done. You want me to leave, I'm leaving."

 _You're always leaving._

"Derek…"

His name escapes me like a plea. It's his cue to tell me I'm being passive-aggressive, refuse to let me make it up to him. A door should slam behind him; that's how we do it.

I hear the door open, feel the gust of air and see the slice of light across the box that blocks my vision, but I can also hear his breathing and I know he hasn't left yet. He wants to but he hasn't, not yet.

My voice sounds congested, but I force it to sound confident – chipper, even. The problem is that my voice breaks halfway through anyway:

"I had an abortion." _There it is. There's the word._ "Three days before I flew to Seattle, I had an abortion."

The door clicks shut, hard, just as I expected.

Except he's still on my side of it. He's still here, and I didn't expect that.

It's enough to turn me around finally; the supply closet is dim but I'm still squinting a little in the comparative brightness. My eyes ache when I try to focus on his blurred face. Everything aches.

"Okay." He sounds calm. "You have my attention now."

* * *

 _to be continued ... assuming you think I should. Thoughts?_


	2. the end of something

**A/N:** **Thank you** for the awesome response. I am really excited about trying to pull together a reconciliation in Season 3. And I'm so excited that other people want to read it! Not gonna lie, it's gonna be rough, and things are probably going to get worse before they get better. Like in this chapter, for instance. But this stuff needs to come out, I think.

* * *

..

 _the end of something_  
..

* * *

 _"Okay," he says. He sounds calm. "You have my attention now."_

I have his attention ... except now I'm not sure I wanted it in the first place.

Maybe Derek is right and I'm just incurably passive-aggressive.

I look up at him, trying to form the words. Any words.

He shakes his head. "Addison, don't do this. Don't drop a … don't say something like that and then stand there like _you're_ the one who's surprised."

But I am surprised.

I'm surprised he's still in the supply closet, I'm surprised he's listening, I'm surprised he's here.

"Sorry."

He reaches for a white plastic bucket sitting a foot or so from him. Is he going to throw up?

"What are you doing?"

"Getting comfortable, since this is apparently going to take a while."

Only Derek can sound patient _and_ irritated at once.

He turns the bucket over and sits down on it, resting his elbows on his thighs. His lab coat is dragging on the ground and I'm about to tell him when I remember that I'm not responsible for his appearance anymore. I shouldn't even be noticing it.

It feels strange to be standing when he's sitting; even in my tallest heels, he always made the effort to seem taller, even if it was just fluffing his hair and tipping his head back. I'm not judging; I'm a big fan of illusion too. It's certainly a lot easier than admission.

So … equality.

My eye falls on a sealed box of gauze and I use one pointed toe to kick it loose from the others. My shoes are useful for a lot of things, it turns out.

Finally, I'm seated, legs crossed, lab coat tucked up – some of us don't like dirt on our things – and then there's no more fussing to distract me.

(If you ever wonder why I needed a six-bedroom brownstone or a beachfront estate with separate pool house, keep in mind that … fussing distracts me.)

So I play with the catch on my bracelet and hope for a deus ex closet to keep me from finishing what I started.

...I never said I make good choices.

"Addison."

He's not really pretending to be patient anymore.

"What do you want to know?" I ask it innocently, trying to avoid eye contact.

"No. I'm not playing twenty questions with you."

"I already told you what I … what happened."

"You told me the end of the story," he corrects me coldly.

I could pretend I don't know what he's talking about, but I do. He wants to know if it's his. Derek starts any negotiation by figuring out his place in the puzzle. Overall it's not a bad strategy for the adversarial process, maybe a little less so for marriage.

Part of me wants to make him say it, ask the question. _Saying it_ is like … well, it's like being. It's like showing up. Maybe some pitiful little part of me is still hoping for his crumbs.

He knows the end of the story. And he thinks he knows the beginning. What he wants is the climax, so here goes:

"It wasn't yours."

But I might as well have said nothing at all because that's what his face registers: absolutely nothing.

A few moments pass like that, Derek's expression as neutral as if I just told him that _it wasn't yours_ referred the pen he'd been using to sign his charts.

(Which happened a lot, when we still spent time together. When we'd snatch moments in the hospital hallways between surgeries. Derek is a notorious pen stealer, always has been; I used to think he was just pretending so he could chat me up in medical school, but no. It's a thing.)

"Derek…?" I say tentatively. "It … wasn't your baby," I add, as if he needs clarification. I don't know, maybe he does. It's not like he listens to me very closely.

He doesn't say anything in response, just holds up a hand. Apparently I don't even warrant a verbal dismissal anymore.

After a moment he stands up, and then he speaks. "You aborted Mark's baby."

He has a half-smile on his face that's very disconcerting. It doesn't promise anything good.

Slowly, I nod, even as I feel I'm digging myself deeper. I stand up too, and face him.

"That was nice of you," he says.

He must see the confusion on my face. "I mean … Mark must have been very relieved," he adds coolly.

There's a funny feeling in my stomach like one of the annoying slow elevators in this hospital just missed a floor. _Swoop._ That kind of feeling.

"What do you mean?" My voice is shaking.

"I mean, I've known Mark Sloan a long time, and he's screwed a lot of women. You're hardly his first abortion."

Derek seems to have no problem with the word … or he's using it to wrong-foot me.

"Mark wanted me to keep it."

There, I said it. And when I say it that ridiculous Yankees onesie flashes through my mind, the calendar with the heart around the due date like the heart that constricted every time I thought about what I had done to my life. The same thing I did to Mark's baby: I terminated it.

(That's all termination means: an ending. A _termination procedure_ just means a procedure to end something. Kind of like what Derek and I did in the lawyers' office when we signed our names to the divorce papers. And then he took the pen with him, of course.)

Derek makes that sort-of laugh sound he overuses, sometimes as a nervous tic but other times as mirthless annoyance. Now I'm guessing it's a little of both.

"Is that what Mark told you. That he _wanted you to keep it?_ "

Derek has this way of imitating me where he repeats my words but he doesn't make his voice higher or anything amateur like that; it's the inflection that changes, so it sounds like me but … a more pathetic me. He's so damned good at it, or maybe I'm an easy target.

I don't want to talk about this anymore, and I tell Derek that.

( _I don't know if I can take anymore._ That's the part I don't say.)

He does the sort-of laugh again in response. "Really. You want to unring the bell? This chat was _your_ idea."

"You followed me in here."

" _You_ embarrassed yourself in front of a patient."

Ouch. _Take it and move on, Addie._

"Well, you told me you never wanted to see me again."

"What does that have to with anything?"

"It just does."

He shakes his head. "I'm done listening to your rambling, Addison. That was a … _perk …_ of marriage, and our marriage is over."

He says _perk_ like it means the opposite. He's good at that, too.

"He did want the baby."

I have no idea why I just said that again. Sometimes I'm my own worst enemy, that's the only reason I can think of.

Derek looks almost … amused. "Don't rewrite history to flatter yourself, Addison. Mark says a lot of things to the girls he screws."

He stops talking for a minute, presumably to let the insult land. That's all I am, a _girl Mark screws._

Screwed, past tense.

Because last night was a slip and I'm not planning on doing it again.

"…including telling them what _wonderful_ mothers they would make to his children."

 _You're just nervous because your mother sucked, I get it, but you're different, Addison. Kids love you! All Derek's sister's kids, come on, you're their favorite. Our kid will love you too._

"See, that way he gets to be the good guy _and_ get the good result."

It's not true. Mark _did_ want the baby. Derek didn't see the onesie. Or the calendar. And Derek didn't see Mark's face when-

"Hey, I'm not complaining." He holds his hands up in faux-surrender. "Leaving aside how grateful the world should be that the offspring of _you and Mark_ won't have the opportunity to wreak havoc … you would have been a terrible mother."

For a minute time just stops and all I hear is my own audible breathing.

I'm reminded suddenly of those horror movie trailers that would play sometimes where all you can hear is breathing. Loud, scared breathing. Uneven, panting breathing. Just someone trying to stay alive at all costs.

(It was scary as shit then and it's not great now either.)

" _Derek_." I say just his name, willing him to stop or help or do _something_ , because he did love me once. _He did_ and I refuse to think anything else, because anything else isn't an option.

He just gives me that same dismissive stare. "What, does the truth hurt?"

"That's ... not fair."

"You and Mark are the two most self-centered people I've ever had the pleasure to meet. You know what happens when selfish people like you have kids? Especially if…" and he pauses for a second like he's considering whether he'll cross a line. Nothing he says after that pause is ever good, in my experience. "…the mother is a cold bitch and the father screws anything that moves?"

My hands are shaking a little bit now; I grab the sleeves of my lab coat to stop them.

Because there's no question what he meant by _that_. Bringing up my parents is a cheap shot: it was meant to hurt, and it worked.

Except then it gets worse, because he decides to answer his own rhetorical question. "The _kids_ grow up to be adults who screw up everything they touch."

Okay, there's no wind in my sails anymore.

Game over, Derek won.

We just stand across from each other, breathing, for a little while.

"I'm sorry I lied to you." My voice is as small as I feel and I don't really know why I'm saying it. I guess I still have some compulsion to smooth things over.

"No, you're not. You're just sorry you got caught." He doesn't sound angry anymore; he sounds ... tired.

I guess that means he's done. Straightening my lab coat, I take a hesitant step forward. Time to walk past him with my head held high like every inch of me doesn't feel flayed from his words.

"Where are you going?"

I stop in my tracks.

"I'm going to go talk to my patient. And if she wants me to, I'm going to terminate her pregnancy. And it doesn't matter that I'm a … selfish bitch and it doesn't matter if it _kills_ me to do it because it's what I signed up for and she needs _someone_ to do it."

"It doesn't have to be you."

"Doesn't it?" I study him for a moment. "It must be nice never to have to worry about this."

"Don't make this about gender. _You_ made a choice. You made a choice and then you lied about it."

"Why did you even need to know?"

" _Because you asked me to take you back!"_

He's so loud now that I actually jump – a little, just instinctually. People passing by must think we're crazy; I'm not sure I'm in any place to contradict them.

"You lied when you asked me to take you back," he says evenly. "You lied about Mark and you lied about … this. You wasted my time."

 _Wasted his time._

It's such an incredibly depressing way to look at our life together that for a moment I'm not sure I can breathe. "We were married for eleven years, Derek," I say finally, faintly.

"I meant this year in Seattle," he says coldly. "But I can see your point."

"I didn't have a point." My voice is shaking. "You - you think trying to fix our _eleven-year_ marriage was a waste of time because … because it kept you from … _screwing_ some girl you picked up in a bar…"

"Don't you dare," he says evenly, "judge her _or_ me when you screwed my best friend _in my bed_ for me to find."

"It wasn't for you to find!" I'm the one who's yelling now. "It wasn't _about_ you, Derek, not everything is!"

He looks me up and down for a moment. "Funny," he says finally. "I seem to remember your showing up in Seattle saying you slept with him to get my attention. Were you lying about that too?"

Right.

See, it probably seems like I'm over a barrel right now, and I get it.

It must seem like that to him, too.

Because he doesn't get how _both_ those things can be true, how sleeping with Mark could be about Derek _and_ not about him all at the same time.

Derek has no idea what it's like to feel invisible. Derek is the most visible person I've ever met.

But he can only think in black and white. Something is, or it isn't. My affair with Mark was about Derek, or it wasn't.

The man is capable of more than most humans but he's never known how to handle the grey.

( _Meredith_ Grey excepted, of course, presumably. Because Derek is very, very capable of that particular sort of handling.)

"You said you wanted to be civil," I say finally, hating the way my voice sounds. Hating that I keep crawling back for more like the kicked puppy still hoping he'll get an ear-scratching that'll make all the pain worth it. "That you liked that we were … mature. _You_ said that, Derek."

"That ship sailed a long time ago, Addie. When you lied to me about Mark."

"Oh."

How's that for pathetic responses? But that's all I say until finally my lips form a question: "So, um … what do you want to do?"

It sounds so weak and so … _casual_ , like we're back in New York debating Thai vs. Vietnamese takeout menus.

(Thai for him, Vietnamese for me, just to be clear.)

"What do I _want to do_?"

He manages to repeat my words and make me sound like a total idiot without actually adding anything to the conversation. Sometimes I think my husband's true gift is how absolutely shit he can make someone feel without trying to-

 _Ex-husband._ Not husband. Damn it, that one's going to be a hard habit to break.

He's still waiting for me to clarify. I feel like I'm shrinking a little with every second those cold eyes are on me.

 _Do you remember that you used to love me? Even if you hate me now, I think I could handle it if you actually remembered. Hell, you don't have to remember you loved me, do you remember me at all? Because you walk around this hospital like you're the most loved-up sophomore on the quad and you've never even heard the word divorce._

"What do you want," I correct quietly, though there's no telling whether he'll like that version better.

"I want you you out of my life," he says simply.

It feels like he hit me with a softball bat – and I actually know what that feels like because Hadley Cabot once did that very thing at practice when she found out what I did with her boyfriend behind the chapel.

And just like I did when Hadley took her shot, all the air leaves my lungs but I pretend it didn't hurt.

"That's going to be hard since we both work here." I give him something between a sneer and a snarl. _Can't hurt me,_ that's what it says.

And inwardly, I just curse the fact that he once knew me so well. I've handed him every weapon he uses against me. Hell, I'm still doing it right now! I didn't need to tell him about the abortion, or even about Mark.

I let Mark – _fucking Mark,_ except of course fucking Mark is what got me into this mess in the first place – but I let Mark, of all people, convince me to come clean to Derek when it couldn't possibly accomplish anything other than making him hate me more.

…and Mark more. Right? But knowing Mark, he had something to gain from it. Mark is strategic. And hot. And that's about it.

(I know, I know, I threw away my marriage on him. Did I mention I was desperate?)

I was. I was desperate.

(And yes, I told him I loved him, and he told me, and I let him hold me after and even see me cry but just like every single other time I regretted it after. I always regret it after.)

See, none of that conflicts with the diagnosis of _desperate._

So, just to be clear: I _was_ desperate, now I'm pathetic, and I let the man who broke up my marriage, admittedly with some help from me, convince me to hand my ex-husband all the ammunition he needed to finish me off once and for all.

"You're not leaving Seattle," he repeats.

"I signed a contract."

"And you're clearly known for keeping your vows."

I walked right into that one, but does he really still get to insult me when he's washed his hands of me?

"I signed a contract," I repeat, with as much dignity as I can muster considering I'm standing in a half-dark supply closet that smells like sterile rubber and Lysol and Derek, of all people, just saw me lose it in front of a patient.

"Yeah? Too bad there was no morals clause in that contract."

Oh, that is _low_.

"Because of the abortion? Seriously?" I prop a hand on my hip. I'm not even angry; I _want_ him to piss me off. The more pissed off I am, the less likely I'll be to break another vow.

(The one about not crying.)

"Please." Derek looks so _dismissive,_ like he doesn't even care if he hurts me but it just comes naturally. "You know perfectly well I'm pro-choice. What I'm anti … is you."

Okay, that one hurt.

"We used to be friends, Derek," I bleat, hating my voice again. "Before we dated, before we got married. We were friends _first_."

"Were we?" There's that dismissive look again. "Or was I just trying to screw you? You probably thought Mark was your friend too."

And with that, I turn back around to the position he found me in, trying to get my diaphragm to move in some way that will let oxygen in.

Nothing like having someone who knows all the worst things about you suggest that the only reason the two closest people in your life for the last sixteen years kept you around was because of your fuckability.

I don't move, not in any way he can see, because I'm waiting for him to leave. I'm not going to break down – not here, and not in front of him. He doesn't get to see that, not anymore.

Neither of us speaks for a while.

"You need to go back in there and finish talking to Hannah Fowler," he says finally. All the aggression has drained out of his voice now and he sounds almost … sorry for me. I guess I'm just that pitiful; so much for the armor.

"Actually." I turn around. Thank you, mother-who-wouldn't-let-us-call-her-mother, for teaching me how to suck it up and pretend nothing hurts. I straighten my skirt and tug my lab coat a little. " _We_ need to go back in there and finish talking to Hannah Fowler."

"You think I'm going to go back in there with you?"

I look at him for a moment. "Yes, I do."

And he will.

I know he will.

Not because of me, not to support me, and definitely not because he cares about me … but because he cares about Hannah Fowler. And Tad, her tattooed boyfriend. And the sad, sad baby Hannah's carrying. He cares about all of them and he only met them fifteen minutes ago.

Where was all that caring when I needed it?

* * *

 _TBC. I promise things will eventually get better, but let's be real - Derek has made very clear he's pissed about not knowing the whole Maddison story, and Derek was verbally eviscerating for all eleven years Shonda permitted him to live. And Addison's no saint. So why am I getting them back together? Because in their twisted, wonderful, marriage-of-equals way, they're perfect for each other. And I am going to force them to see it, in this story, if it's the last thing I do!_

 _Oh, and **Emk8** , thank you for the weapons imagery._

 _So please keep reading and **review** , review, review, because nothing makes me a writing machine like reviews._


	3. waiting

**Thank you so much** for all the response to this story. I know the last chapter was rough, and more than one of you wanted to punch Derek in the face (which I totally get), so I appreciate your bearing with me. Story warnings about abortion continue. More notes after the chapter, which is a little on the longer side since I may not be able to post the next update _quite_ as fast.

* * *

 _.._

 _waiting  
.._

* * *

Here's one of the many benefits when you refuse to shed a tear: there's no need to waste time washing your face when you have limited moments to pull yourself back together.

I do pause to grab a bottle of water from the nurse's station and swallow half in a few long sips. Derek plucks the bottle from my hand as we walk – if he notices it's shaking a little, he gives no indication –and drains the rest. I just act busy with Hannah's chart so he doesn't try to hand me the empty bottle to recycle.

"I'm sorry we had to rush out," I tell Hannah when we return to her room, my tone nice and professional. One of the perks of being a surgeon is you can always fake an emergency, and she nods, seeming to believe it.

I encourage her to tell me how she's feeling about her options.

"Um … well, so Tad and I have been talking. And we… we decided we want the … the thing we talked about," she says.

"Okay." I nod, smiling at her as reassuringly as I can. "There are a few more steps before we'll get started; I'll talk you through them now."

And I do. And we talk.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes, Hannah."

"Will he look … normal?" And then she stops and covers her mouth with her hand, presumably as she remembers that the son she's carrying will never look normal. Whatever _normal_ is.

"Your son will be – " _intact_ is a clinical word, I avoid it, "-able to be held, and touched, and you can spend time with him."

"Not … pieces," she whispers.

 _God_. Just once I'd like to be able to take one of those awful signs with the gory pictures of thirty-two week fetuses pretending to be first-trimester products of conception, the type of signs that lodge in impressionable minds – and just – snap it in two.

But you're not supposed to engage. So I never did engage.

(Except for once … and that's a story for another time.)

"Hannah." I wait for her to look at me. "Your son will be whole. He will be your son."

I remind her again of her options. I remind her of her choices. And she tells me she's choosing the termination.

Then she turns to her boyfriend. "Right, Tad?"

He looks conflicted.

"We talked about it," she continues, her tone getting higher with nerves. "How, like … if we do this … then he never has to see what a crappy place the world is. The kind of place where babies get made with no brains."

Tad swallows hard; I know this because I can see the tattoo on his neck flutter as his throat constricts.

"Hannah," I say gently. "This is your decision, and you need to be certain of it. So if you need more time, then you should take more time. But I want to make sure you understand that your options change as time passes. So time … counts, here."

And we go through it. Again, we go through it.

"Right. Okay." She wipes tears off her cheeks. Tad is holding her hand now, and I try to make out the blue-ink symbols on his bony knuckles.

"Would you like me to give you more-"

"No." She shakes her head firmly. "No, I don't need more time. I want to do it like you said."

Tad nods along with her this time.

"Okay. Then tomorrow morning we'll do the first step we talked about, where we soften your cervix-"

"We can't do it now?"

"Hannah…"

"You – you said there's no waiting period!"

"There's not," I say gently. "Not legally, but in this hospital, we need to file certain paperwork before we can get started. Additionally, for the softening-"

"Okay," she says, waving her hand. "Okay, I get it. But, just – what if I go home tonight and change my mind?"

"Hannah." I look right at her; this is important. "You can change your mind at _any_ time before we start. For any reason."

"What about after?" Her voice is a thin whisper.

"After the sticks are inserted and your cervix starts to soften, you _must_ continue to receive medical care or you risk serious infection and even death." I say it firmly, bluntly, because of the very real risk nudging at me that Hannah could turn into a runner.

Nurse Taylor and I exchange a look. I know she's been a GYN nurse for thirty years and the expression on her face says she's seen a runner before, too.

And she knows it's not pretty.

"It's important that you understand that, Hannah."

"I understand."

"Good. Thank you," I say. "So … once the sticks are inserted, you'll be staying at the hospital until we deliver your son."

"Oh," she says in a small voice. "Okay. What do I, um … what do I do now?"

"Nurse Taylor is going to help you with everything you need to do before you leave. And then you'll come back to the hospital tomorrow morning for the insertion step."

"Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes, Hannah."

"You'll be here, right? In the morning, I mean, for the stick things."

"Yes. I'll be here."

..

Derek hasn't said a word this time, but I did notice him working the soft eyes and hopefully they made Hannah feel a little better about her impossible situation. He distributes warm farewells and reminds them they can come to him anytime with questions (of course he does).

After that, he stands against the open door for me to exit the room first – _now you're a gentleman?_ – and then follows me into the hall. I'm ready to take my leave of him, to take my leave of everything and let the bottle of wine waiting in my hotel room wash away some of the sting of his harsh words, but the next thing he says interferes with that plan.

"Addison. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Um … I'm not sure I can handle another talk with you today." I try to chuckle a little like I'm joking; we both know I'm not.

"It's about the case."

And he makes a sort of sheepish gesture with his head that probably wouldn't look like anything to a stranger, or a colleague, or even a friend, but eleven years of marriage turns the smallest of inflections into a paragraph.

I know this gesture. It's not an apology, it's not even détente, but it's … something. So I lift my chin a little bit – to say _okay, fine_ – and I can see he still knows how to read that too.

So yeah … I guess I'm willing to talk.

Except I don't know _where_ we're going to talk. I'm not going back into a supply closet with him and I'm pretty sure I'm never going into an empty exam room with him until I confirm which exam room was the catalyst for Dr. Grey's lost panties and ask the janitors to give it a few extra rounds of bleach.

Or, you know, just block the whole thing off with HAZMAT tape.

We end up standing in the corner where two parts of the hallway meet; it's not exactly private, more like … hiding in plain sight. And I know how it must look, after the things he said to me, after the way he tore into me, but here we are. Just … standing.

He studies my face for a moment before he starts talking. Maybe he's hoping to find evidence of the wounds he left the last time we talked.

"You're scheduling the procedure for tomorrow?"

"Yes, Derek, didn't you hear me talking to the patient?"

(I said I was willing to talk. I didn't say I was willing to be nice.)

He doesn't respond.

"I'm inserting the laminaria in the morning and we'll go from there. Maybe you should pay attention on your consults so I don't need to … waste my time … repeating myself."

I lean on the words _waste my time._ And I can tell three things – that notices it, that he knows why, and that he's not going to deign to address it – all just in the way his eyes flicker after I finish speaking.

…another perk of eleven years of marriage, I guess.

"Tomorrow she'll be at 22 weeks," he says.

"I'm aware of that, which is why now that she's decided we need to move quickly." He's still looking at me, and I can't keep the impatience out of my tone. "What?"

"Nothing," he mutters.

"Oh, don't start censoring yourself now."

"Fine." He glares at me. "Do you know what a baby looks like at 22 weeks, after the-?"

"You know I do, Derek." I pause. "Do _you_ know what a mother looks like when her baby dies in her arms twenty minutes after she spent _forty hours_ pushing him out, knowing the whole time even if he survived the birth he'd be dead within a day?"

"Addison," he says quietly. He cocks his head slightly and his blue eyes are soft.

Damn it.

"No. _No._ You don't get to do this anymore, you don't get to … manipulate me."

It's just not fair. Not now. Especially not now.

"I'm not trying to manipulate you," he says, sounding innocent. Derek always sounds innocent – when he wants to. "I just think there's a conversation to be had here-"

"There _was_ a conversation, or did you miss that too when you weren't paying attention?"

He doesn't respond.

"Derek … the timing is tight here. I don't want her to lose options. If we go much more than tomorrow, we run into…"

I don't finish the thought, but he gets it; we proceed to have one of those conversations we haven't had in a while, all half-thoughts and unspoken conclusions.

"Could you even-"

"You know it depends on-"

"But then you'd-"

"-in that case."

"So." He looks at me. "You _could_ let someone else do it."

I think I might scream.

"Derek, don't you get it? It's easy for you to say _there's a conversation to be had._ It's easy for you to say _let someone else do it._ But there is no someone else! _I'm the someone else._ I'm who's there when the other people won't do it."

"You don't have to be," he insists.

I start pacing, frustrated. "You just don't get it."

"So explain it to me."

 _Explain it to him_.

I could try … but he'll never get it.

"My job isn't easy here, Derek, not like yours. Your job is just to judge me, to stand there and think you have any idea what it's like … what it's like …" I'm starting to run out of steam.

"You're right," he says. "I don't know what it's like for myself. But I do know what it's like for-"

He stops talking abruptly and for a moment we're both silent, maybe both daring each other to keep going.

Then I shake my head, put a pin in it, and meet his eyes.

"This woman – this _girl_ , she's so young … this _mother_ , she doesn't want her son to have to face a world that's going to kill him. Birth is painful, you know that, right? Birth is painful but the reward is _living_ , which he won't get to do. So she wants to protect him, she wants him to live his whole life with her, but she can't do that by herself. She needs someone to help her and _I am that someone._ "

I stop to draw breath.

"I told her I'd support her no matter what she chose. And this is what she chose."

"That still doesn't mean-"

"Derek, you have _no idea w_ hat it's like to be the person a woman turns to when having a baby would destroy her."

"So it's all right if _not_ having it destroys someone else instead?"

"Don't you pretend to care about me. Don't you dare, not after what-"

"Addison," he starts to intercede but I don't let him.

"No. Stop. And this isn't about me, anyway. This is about a _patient_."

"Can't you take a step back here and-"

"No, Derek! I'm done."

" _Addison._ "

"I'll bring you the termination paperwork when it's final."

"Addison, this discussion isn't over."

"Actually … it is." I study him for a moment, determined not to let his warning get to me just as I'm determined not to let him hurt me again. He may have pierced my armor in that supply closet … but I have my own arsenal.

I step a little closer to him and give him my most charming smile. "And you know what, Derek? Here's a little incentive for both of us. Once the procedure is done, I'll get out of your life just like you asked me to … and then you can stay the hell out of mine."

...

I'm lying in the middle of the big white hotel bed later that night – a nice blank canvas as empty as my life here in Seattle – just staring at the ceiling.

Which is also white.

And blank.

I haven't bothered to change out of my work clothes or order dinner or do much of anything other than flick on a light when I first opened the door, because it's not depression if it's not dark … right?

There's a glass of wine on the nightstand next to the bed – it's not like I'm swigging from the bottle, which means _yay me_ I don't have a problem – but I haven't managed more than half of it. Drinking is work; it requires moving.

And I'm not moving right now. Not if I can help it. I don't move even when I hear the buzz of a key card or when the door to my hotel room opens, sending an arc of hallway light across my vision, or when footsteps make their way across the carpet toward me.

Finally I speak, but I move only my lips, gaze still firmly on the ceiling.

"Remind me why I gave you a key to my room?"

"…how graphically do you want me to answer that?"

There's laughter behind his deep voice – this is _funny_ to him – but when the mattress dips down next to me I don't tell him to leave.

I'm weak. I'm weak and he's Mark and the way he rests a hand on my thigh is almost affectionate.

 _You probably thought Mark was your friend too,_ that's one of the things Derek said.

"I'm not having sex with you tonight," I warn him.

(I know, it's blunt, but Mark isn't really a subtext kind of guy.)

"What makes you think I want to have sex with you?"

Gee, I don't know, maybe _everything,_ including the very recognizable glimmer in his eyes and the way his hand is moving up my thigh in a way that heralds something very different from friendship.

"Mark … stop." I push on his wrist, and he holds up both his hands in surrender.

"I thought you were done playing hard to get."

"I'm not _playing_ anything," I scowl, hauling myself into a sitting position. Lying down around Mark is never a good idea, and as for scowling – it's one of the best ways to forestall tears, you know. It's in the lesser known Emily Post book _Manners for Repressed Young Ladies With Emotionally Withholding Mothers_.

"Addison." He sighs my name, then swings himself up higher to sit against the headboard next to me.

"I had a long day," I tell him, avoiding eye contact.

"You had a long day. I get it. So have a drink with me."

"I can't have a drink with you." I rest my head on my updrawn knees; it's easier if I don't look at him.

(Remember when you were little and you thought if you could make yourself into the smallest possible ball, no one could see you? …yeah, so do I.)

"Why can't you have a drink with me?"

Oh, Mark's nothing if not persistent, which he proves by adding, "it's just a drink, Addison."

"It's never _just a drink_ with you, Mark. _Just a drink_ leads to _just_ other things, and I'm not having sex with you tonight."

"You said that before. But I don't recall hearing a reason. I _know_ it's not a customer satisfaction issue, because last night you were extremely-"

" _Mark_."

"-as I'm sure any of your neighbors on this side of the hallway will attest," he finishes. Then he smiles at me and pitiful as I am right now, it actually makes me feel good for a second.

But then I can see the exact moment my capitulation registers with him and it makes my stomach clench. He does this _waiting_ thing a lot, Mark. Watching me. Lately it just seems like he's waiting for me to give in.

I put my head back down on my knees. I like the feeling of bone against bone right now, like I'm pressing back the thoughts that are swimming in my head, the echoes from the closet. After a moment, I feel his hand on the back of my neck, massaging the tight muscles.

"You're tense," he observes.

I lift my head, which makes his hand fall away. "Come on, Mark, you can do better than that. You're not a freshman frat boy."

"And you're not a freshman virgin so I have no idea why you're keeping it under lock and key."

I know what Mark thinks: that I don't have any virtue left, not with him. That there's no reason for me to say no. He thinks the both of us are the same: just a _yes_ on legs, walking around waiting for a fix. He thinks that he and I are equals. And maybe we are.

Except _manwhore_ is kind of cute, kind of complimentary. And _whore_? Well … it's not.

"What's the matter, Addison?"

I just sigh.

"Come on, we covered this already. You don't have to feel guilty anymore, remember?"

 _Oh, you have no idea._

He studies me for a moment. "So it is Derek. _Addison,_ " and he says my name in that coaxing way he knows works on me, "it doesn't matter what Derek thinks."

"I know that."

"Then stop letting him upset you."

I think about this for a minute. "Stop letting him upset me because it upsets me, or stop letting him upset me because it upsets _you_ when he upsets me and then I don't want to have sex with you?"

"You've lost me."

 _No kidding._

"Forget it." I sigh again.

"Addison … Derek will get over it. You just have to give him some time."

"He said he wants me out of his life." I say it automatically but it's okay because he said pretty much the same thing when I told him I lived with Mark for two months.

"Derek says a lot of things."

"It's not Derek, okay? It's … this case."

"So tell me about the case."

"Yeah?"

"Sure," he says.

I open my mouth and then I close it again.

"… never mind," I mumble. It's easier just to give in, anyway. Especially since his hands are sliding under my blouse, which has come untucked from the skirt I didn't bother to take off when I got home. He keeps his fingers on my ribcage – he probably thinks he should be congratulated for that – but he's _Mark_ and he can turn anything into an erogenous zone.

I let him do it because it feels better than nothing.

And _nothing_ is what I felt before he opened my hotel room door.

"Addison … you have become _such_ a tease." He says it affectionately, though, and then looks at me for a moment. "Okay, I can see you had a rough day. C'mere." He holds out his arms.

"Why?" I sound suspicious. I _am_ suspicious.

"So I can give you a backrub."

I narrow my eyes at him. "A dirty backrub?"

"A clean backrub," he promises.

I'm barely halfway through a slow nod before he starts unbuttoning my blouse. Okay, then. But he leaves my bra on at least, and even though he shuffles me in between his bent legs he doesn't make any extra effort to bring me into contact with the proof that he came in here for sex.

For Mark, that's almost _tender_.

His warm hands are digging into my shoulders – he does move the straps away first, _for access,_ he whispers when I start to protest and I swallow my response _yeah, that's what I'm worried about._

But he's limiting himself to my shoulders, my back, the back of my neck, and those big hands are damned talented so for a few minutes I just sit there drinking in the massage, the feeling of someone else touching me: the loosening of my muscles. The attention.

If I squint … it might almost feel like love.

"Mark … "

"Yeah." He's concentrating on a knot in my shoulders. His hands really are good.

They can't make up for everything – but they can make up for a lot. Or at least cover up a lot.

"Do you think I would be a bad mother?"

The motion of his fingers on my skin pauses. "Last time you asked me that question," he says carefully, "you were pregnant."

"Not this time," I tell him hastily. "I'm just asking."

"Okay." He pauses. "Didn't I tell you then that I thought you would be a good mother?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"-but now you're asking me I still think that after you got rid of our kid?"

Now I remember why we don't talk about the abortion. I'm starting to pull away from him but he tugs me back.

"Hey …." He starts massaging again. "For what it's worth … I still don't think you would be a bad mother."

He drops a kiss on the top of my head and I lean back against him a little. A small and shameful part of me wouldn't mind being held, but I don't know how to get there without sex, not with Mark.

And I'm tired. Tired of talking in general and tired of talking about abortion in particular, but then my phone rings before I can figure out what to do next.

I have to squirm around Mark's hands just to find out who's calling.

"It's the hospital, stop. Mark _,_ stop."

I duck away from him because he's taken my closeness to mean I'm changing my mind and his lips are skimming over my neck now. " _Mark._ I have to take this." I wrench away from him in a sort of army-crawl across the mattress, which pushes my already bunched skirt up higher. But he just chuckles and helps me sit up.

And then he starts rubbing my shoulders again (he's still Mark) while I try to hear the voice on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, I'm here – sorry, which – oh, the Fowler case? Yes, I'm planning to – "

 _Stop it,_ I hiss at Mark, pushing away his hand as I turn my head to try to hear the phone better.

"Yes, I'm inserting the laminaria tomorrow morning, I filed that with the plan – what did you say? … No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Wait, _what?_ " I listen for a moment."He didn't? But that's … no, of course I understand. Okay. Chief's … yes, got it."

I hang up the phone and turn to stare at Mark.

"What happened?"

"Derek didn't sign the termination paperwork."

"So?"

"He's … he's raising a viability challenge."

"What does that mean?"

"What does that mean?" I find myself repeating his words, maybe because I'm having trouble believing this is happening.

"It means that I can't start the termination tomorrow," I tell him. "It means that I have a meeting in Richard's office at 8 a.m. It _means_ … that until this is resolved, there's nothing I can do to help my patient."

* * *

 _Reviews make my heart sing and, maybe more importantly, they make it easier for me to write and update as speedily as possible._

 ** _Notes:_** _A word on Mark - I don't hate him, as anyone who reads my stories knows. I don't hate Derek or Addison either, or Meredith for that matter. Season 3, especially early Season 3, was extremely rough. It's the season post-divorce Derek was brutal to Addison, Mark sold out Addison to Derek and then **tried to convince Mer to sleep with him** \- no one was at their best, and I think this story reflects that. But please give the characters - and me - some time and we will eventually make progress, I promise._


	4. promises

**A/N: fixed formatting snafu ... I think.**

* * *

..  
 _promises  
.._

* * *

So much for dignity.

So much for _resolve_ , I should add; despite my promises to myself, I end up lasting about half an hour after that rage-inducing call from the hospital before I break my vow not to have any more sex with Mark.

(I know, I know. I already said I'm weak, didn't I?)

And more than that, I'm mad. I'm furious with Derek, and even though he obviously doesn't care what I do anymore, it just seems like the next logical step is to shove Mark onto the bed as if it will make things better, climb on top of him like it's a victory and pretend it's not giving in if I'm in charge.

He just laughs under me, a rumbling vibration, and seems to enjoy it for a few minutes before he flips us both over and takes control.

And I let him. Because it's better than thinking about how I'm going to fail my patient.

And it's better than replaying Derek's diatribe in the supply closet.

And it's definitely better than thinking about what I'm going to say in Richard's office tomorrow.

That's Mark, his _one thing_ capable of numbing the sum of the worst things in my life, and he seems to be determined not to let me forget how good he is at that one thing because we don't stop until I'm pretty sure I've seen god and almost positive I heard one of the mattress springs snap.

(At least the hotel hasn't complained about us yet, but I think that has more to do with my black card than my ability to keep the noise down.)

After he finishes with me, once I can stand up again, I remember the phone call and I start pacing the carpet, muttering angrily. See, the problem with Mark's _one thing_ is it only makes me feel better until it's done. It could be … _done …_ six times and that's still not enough to get me through.

Mark's watching me pace. "I didn't tire you out yet, huh?"

"Don't get any ideas," I warn him, because I do still have to be able to walk tomorrow.

"I still don't understand why you're so worked up."

Of course he doesn't. Mark is stretched out on the tangled sheets of my bed, hands folded behind his head. He's stark naked, of course – in fairness, I'm currently wearing the shirt he wore into the room, liking how small it makes me feel. But I'm so tense that the chambray is irritating my bare skin; Mark, on the other hand, looks perfectly relaxed.

Sometimes I think it would be nice to be Mark. No moral dilemmas, no crushing guilt, no second-guessing everything you do. I lived with him for two months and I'm pretty much convinced the man only has two speeds: horny and afterglow.

(I told him that once and he accused me of underestimating him; I told him I thought the problem was that I _over_ estimated him.)

"Because you're not listening," I chide him, and give him the bare bones of the issue again.

He looks slightly confused when I'm done. "Isn't it a little late?"

"In the pregnancy, you mean?"

He nods.

"Well … yeah. But that's … kind of the whole point of what I was saying before."

"Oh." He pauses for a minute. "So then how do you calculate-"

"Mark," I interrupt. " … do you really care about … this?"

"You mean gynecology?" He pronounces it with a soft g, a j-sound, like he has since medical school when he's trying to denigrate it. Apparently, based on his smirk, he still thinks it's hilarious.

"Forget it."

"Hey, I care! I listened, didn't I?"

"Would you have listened if I didn't just let you screw me?"

"Mm … I plead the fifth. Addison!" He reaches out his hand for me when I scowl. "I'm _kidding._ Come on, stop being so sensitive."

I don't go to him, just tell him he should leave because he can't sleep here.

So of course he insists on sleeping here.

And I wonder if he knows that's exactly why I said it, but I think _that_ might be overestimating him, too.

I sleep fitfully … but he does stay the night. Which is nice. My alarm goes off at 5:58 like always; I'm awake before it, waiting for the numbers to change, like I have been every night since I moved into the hotel.

Mark wakes up when I do and then follows me into the shower and proceeds to do a pretty good reenactment of our first night together in Seattle. The shower itself is the same, except I'm sober this time – which means the things that aren't supposed to bend that way don't feel quite as good this morning they bend that way. I can also feel him attacking my neck with a ferocity I know will leave marks but I can't find the words to stop him – not while his fingers are doing what they're doing.

Mark is nothing if not distracting.

…but that's a problem when you're trying to get dressed for a meeting with the Chief of Surgery who already, _one_ , knew you as a weak little intern a hundred years ago, and _two_ , saw you lose it in front of the whole hospital and totally called you on it. So –

Crap, I just remembered he _also_ saw me dressed to drink the morning after I found the panties in Derek's tux. No makeup, canvas bucket hat straight from 1993 … yeah, Richard has seen _way_ too much.

Anyway. That's why I'm doing the dignified thing this morning – black pencil skirt (no, not that one, the more conservative one) and the blouse with the thing. Carefully understated accessories, carefully outlined eyes.

When I stand in front of the wall of mirrors in the Archfield bathroom, the woman staring back looks pretty good. Trustworthy, even. Someone to be taken seriously … well, except for the little problem of the mark on the side of her neck – my neck, whatever – that looks for all the world like someone burned us with a quarter. Or two.

So I do what any mature, almost-forty-year-old woman would do: I tie on a silk scarf to hide the hickey and try not to be too obvious about walking sideways as I stumble into the hospital for our meeting with Richard.

…

I can see Derek's eyes flicker to the scarf around my neck as soon as I step into the Chief's office. I wish he wouldn't look so disgusted whenever he sees me. _You chose me,_ I want to tell him. _You picked me. You loved me. Even if you hate me now, you don't get to pretend I'm a stranger … or worse._

We were best friends once, can you believe it? So yeah, screw him for saying he only wanted to screw me. I don't believe him, not really – that's not the problem – it's how much he knew it would hurt me and how smugly he said it anyway. I just give him an icy nod and turn to greet Richard, noting with chagrin how close the two chairs in front of his desk are to each other. Derek pulls one of them a foot or so away – thankfully. Richard turns away to get a file and Derek looks at me with that thinly veiled disgust again.

"Nice, Addison," he says, too quietly for Richard to hear; he flicks the edge of the scarf and I shove his hand down, which isn't quite as satisfying as slapping him in the face but not as lawsuit-worthy either. "I'm glad to see your concern for your patient didn't keep you from … enjoying your evening."

 _It's from this morning, actually._

I almost say it but I won't sink to his level. "Pretty sure my _enjoyment_ isn't your business anymore," I say coolly instead, and before he can respond Richard turns back around and summons our attention, wearing his best Chiefly expression.

"Addison. Derek."

"Yes?" We say it in unison, perfectly professional, perfectly perfect. Apparently we're going to have a perfect-off with Richard now to see who wins the right to decide what _my_ patient needs. Richard starts reminding us why we're here but I can't resist turning to Derek as soon as he pauses.

"Derek … what are you doing?" I shake my head; my voice is a hissing whisper but I'm sure Richard can hear it.

"I have some questions about the gestational age." Derek is staring straight ahead, not looking at me.

" _Bullshit_ you have questions about the gestational age-"

"Addison," Richard interjects, but I ignore him.

"You're a neurosurgeon, Derek, I'm the one who's been dating pregnancies for the last ten years. I've been delivering preemies while you've been-"

"All I said was I have questions."

"Addison," Richard says calmly. "You're in Washington now and the law in Washington is fetal viability."

"I understand that, Richard, I know it's not a flat 24-week cutoff, but we're talking about a severe fetal anomaly here."

"I'm aware." Richard studies the chart for a moment. "And if we can't provide the procedure here at the hospital, there are places we can refer-"

"Out of state," I interrupt him, my voice shaking. "Hannah Fowler never even sought prenatal care; you think she can handle trying to track down someone willing to – Richard, there's a short window of time where we can help her _here_ without putting her through an ordeal she shouldn't have to suffer and might not be able to handle."

"Addison … Derek has suggested the fetus is already viable based on its measurements."

"Based on his measurements," I repeat. "You do realize I'm considered an expert in fetal measurements? And not just in medicine, but by the courts?"

"Addison," Richard says calmly, "I'm well aware of your unparalleled credentials, which is why I fought for you to practice here in Seattle and why I'm so grateful you've chosen to stay with us."

I'm a little mollified by this … but only a little. Still, flattery will get you places, especially if you don't exactly get a lot of other positive reinforcement (unless you count sexual advances from the guy you accidentally threw away your marriage for).

"But," he continues, "there is a process here, and Derek has raised a question about fetal viability. Now we're going to need to get a second opinion to date the fetus."

"Richard." I meet his eyes, appealing, trying to will him to believe me. "Derek's doing this on purpose. He just wants to stall."

Richard looks Derek. "Is that what you're doing, Derek?"

"Of course not. I just have questions."

Oh, I cannot _stand_ the look on his face.

I actually rise up to my feet – I'm not really sure why, I just can't stay seated anymore, and then Derek does too and we're in each other's faces.

"You don't care about gestational age. You're trying to stop the procedure and you know it and you just sit here and _lie_ -"

"Oh, you're one to talk about lying!"

"This isn't about me!" I'm yelling now. "It's about a patient that you're endangering because of some petty, childish-"

"THAT IS ENOUGH!"

I've never heard Richard so loud in all the years I've known him.

"This is a _hospital,_ not a bar or a … schoolyard, and the both of you _will_ get yourselves under control."

I'm breathing heavily and so is Derek.

"Sit _down_ , both of you."

We do, and I cross my legs in the opposite direction from Derek, shove my hair behind my ears and try to calm down.

"Now." Richard looks from one of us to the other, his voice quieter but no less severe. "I don't think this is the first time I've had to tell you to keep your marital problems out of my hospital."

"I'm not married anymore," Derek says quickly.

"I don't care if you're in a harem with forty women, Shepherd, _I care that you are wasting my time!_ "

Oh, let's see how Derek likes being told what a waste of time he is. He certainly seemed to like delivering that message to me yesterday.

He doesn't like it. But he shuts up and lets Richard talk anyway; I seethe through Richard's short explanation of the second opinion process and I don't look at Derek, not once, for the rest of the meeting.

"I have to go tell my patient we can't start the procedure this morning." I won't let my voice shake. I refuse.

Richard is looking at me with something that smacks a little too much of pity for my liking. "We can have someone else speak with her, Addison."

"No. She's my responsibility, and she trusts me." _At least she used to._ "Are we finished here?" I stand up and straighten my skirt before Richard can answer. Let him get me for insubordination – I'm feeling reckless.

But he doesn't, and I find myself a little disappointed.

…

"Addison." He starts in as soon as we leave Richard's office.

"Not now, Derek."

He just calls my name again without appreciating the irony of my answer.

"Addison, _wait._ "

I keep walking and he grabs my arm, turning me around before I can stop him.

"Let go of me."

He does, but he doesn't move out of my space.

"Why are you doing this?" I want to shove him so badly that my hands actually start rising, almost of their own accord, but I manage not to do it. "You're going to hurt a patient because you hate me?"

"That's not what I'm doing, and you know it."

"I don't care about why you're doing it, then, but you're hurting my patient. I told her I could help her, and-"

"-and now you're involved?"

"What is that supposed to mean? Of course I'm involved. She's my patient."

He stares over my shoulder. "Fine."

"If it's _fine_ then why are you doing this?"

"Because someone has to."

"Why?"

"Because you can't handle it!" He's standing much closer than I realized before but I'm not backing down this time.

"Yes, I _can_!"

"No, you can't."

"I can handle a _hell_ of a lot more than you think, Derek."

And I spin on my heel to storm off but not before I hear what he mutters next.

"Yeah – right up until you can't."

…

I take advantage of the walk to Hannah Fowler's room to steady my breathing.

There's another doctor in with my patient when I knock on her door. Hannah's already been admitted, and she looks small and nervous in the hospital bed, twisting the blanket with her good hand.

"Good morning, Hannah."

"Hi." She glances around. "Can we wait for Tad before, um, before you start? He just went to get some food."

"Of course." I smile reassuringly at her. I'll wait until we're alone to explain.

"We're almost done here." The doctor looking at Hannah's arm glances up at me. It's Torres, from orthopedic surgery. Or should I say it's Calliope Torres, senior orthopedic surgery resident, initially from Miami, Duke undergrad, Michigan med, fluent in Spanish?

(You'd be surprised how many times you can read the Faculty Handbook when there's pretty much nothing else going on in your life.)

"Thank you, Dr. Torres."

"I'm just checking out her shoulder. I put it back in place yesterday, and it looks good from my end. How does it feel this morning, Hannah?"

"It feels okay."

"She was very tough." Dr. Torres says. "I've had professional athletes scream when I do that, you know," she tells Hannah, who smiles a little.

The door creaks further open and Tad comes in with a bag that smells like hot grease and makes my stomach turn over.

"I'm so glad you're back." Hannah reaches out to him, some of her lank blonde hair falling into her face. Tad moves it out of the way for her and even though I can tell his fingers are greasy it's actually kind of sweet.

He looks a little embarrassed when he remembers they have company.

"You're all set, Hannah." Torres says goodbye to the patient and then glances at me.

I take the hint and step toward the door with her.

"I understand she's not cleared for anti-inflammatories yet," Torres says quietly.

"Right. And the timing is … a little complicated," I admit, keeping my voice down so Hannah doesn't hear. "We're going to have to delay the procedure."

"Oh." Torres looks surprised.

"I'll let you know," I say, and she nods and closes the door behind her.

Now there's nothing between me and my patient. I take a deep breath and get ready to let her down.

 _I don't understand. I just don't understand._

That's what Hannah keeps repeating, blotting tears from her eyes with tissues I keep pulling from the little pink cardboard box that was resting on her rolling cart. Tad is alternately squeezing her hand and glaring at me.

"I'm so sorry, Hannah," I say again. "I know this is frustrating, and upsetting, but I am doing everything I can to move the process along."

"But you said you could start this morning."

"I know. I thought I could, but unfortunately I can't."

"Then can I go home? Like now, I mean? And come back?"

"Not quite yet. Another doctor is going to take a look at you and your baby today, Hannah."

"But you're the one who'll do it, right?" She looks at me anxiously.

"I am planning to do it, yes," I say, "as long as I can do it, I will be the one to do it."

"But if you can't do it then what happens?"

You always have to be honest with the patient. As a doctor, you don't get to lie. You don't get to obfuscate. And you don't get the comfort of euphemisms.

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?"

So much for that.

"But, Dr. Montgomery – I want you to do it. You said you would do it." Her voice is rising higher. "I don't want any more doctors," she bleats, and I pass her another tissue as Tad tries to get an arm around her without disturbing her sling.

What's that other thing doctors can never do?

I look right into her eyes with my most reassuring tone: "Hannah, I _promise_ I am going to help you."

Oh, yeah. We're never, under any circumstances, supposed to make promises.

…

"Hey." Mark catches my arm as I pass by the nurse's station and swings me away. "What's the matter?"

"Derek is ruining my life _and_ my patient's life, and I need a better trick than this scarf."

I don't say that, but I could. Maybe I should. I just stand there in the relative privacy of the filing cabinets and watch people walking by in the hallway while I'm stuck.

I'm always stuck.

"Nothing," I say, looking away.

Mark is looming over me and I hate how good he smells. I brace myself on the edge of the nurse's desk and tilt my head back to see his face; a piece of hair falls out of my clip and flops right into my face.

So much for dignity.

He chuckles and reaches out to push the lock of hair behind my ear for me; his hand lingers for a moment, first on my jaw and then on my cheek, and it's almost sweet until I turn my head to see Derek stalking by.

I guess Mark hasn't finished marking his territory.

Should I be flattered that he's doing the equivalent of peeing on me in front of his beta-wolf?

I'm not. I'm somewhere between indifferent and depressed. Which is not a fun place to be. Familiar, yes … but not fun.

"What are you doing?" I lean away from his hand.

He just grins at me, that slow smile with the predatory teeth that never fails to remind me that to Mark … I'm nothing but a game.

"I have to go," I tell him. "I have a surgery."

"Fine." He moves his arm so I can pass. "I'll see you tonight."

"No, you won't," I tell him as convincingly as I can manage.

 _God, I hope I'm right_.

…

I lied about having a surgery. Mark won't check the board, and if he does, he won't care. He cares a lot more about what goes in my mouth than what comes out.

And I don't mean lunch.

Ugh, I'm starting to sound like him.

But _lunch_ is what I'm doing now, because that's part of going through the motions. Wake up, shower, dress, come to work, face your ex-husband who hates you and takes every opportunity to remind you, cut open a few patients, eat some lunch, teach, cut, teach, cut some more, teach a little more, and then go "home" to an empty hotel room where the only personal touch is the wine fridge I requested specially from management.

Meanwhile, the weather in Seattle annoys me as much as everything else – it's damp, humid, lodging in my lungs and screwing up my hair as I stand there in the outside cafeteria looking for an empty table. All I need is a royal stewart plaid skirt, a pair of penny loafers, and a mouthful of metal and I could be back in high school.

Three tables away, I spot Meredith and Derek sitting together sharing a tray.

Oh, great. Exactly what I want to see right now.

"Addison!"

I guess he sees me too because now he's walking over. Even better.

I'm still standing there like an idiot holding my tray and trying to make it very clear I don't have time for this. "What?"

"I'm confirming that you're holding off on the Fowler case."

"You know I am." I don't meet his eyes.

"Did you talk to the patient?"

I set the tray down on the table, mainly so I can free up a hand to put on my hip.

"She isn't your patient, Derek. It's not your case."

"It's my name on the paperwork," he says.

The _nerve_.

"The paperwork you purposely screwed up? Yeah, that's your name."

" _You_ called me in for a consult." His voice is cold but it's not that quiet anymore, which just frustrates me more.

"Because I stupidly thought you could actually put aside your pettiness for two seconds!"

" _Addison_ ," he says sharply, "if you would just-"

"Hey there!" A cheerful voice interrupts our argument, and I turn to see who it belongs to.

"Dr. Torres," Derek mutters in reluctant greeting. Apparently she doesn't warrant his dreamy face.

Lucky her.

She glances from Derek back to me. "Am I interrupting?"

"No," I say quickly. "Dr. Shepherd was just leaving."

Torres sets her tray down at the table next to me. "Don't let me keep you," she says cheerfully to Derek, who stands there nonplussed for a moment before turning and heading away without another word.

And I think I might be falling in love.

… okay, fine, I'm not in love with Dr. Torres. But she's still kind of my savior right now, and I tell her so.

She just pops a cherry tomato into her mouth. "Callie," she corrects me. "And yeah, you looked like you could use a hand."

"Addison," I respond in kind. "And here I thought I was keeping it together," I smile weakly, as if it's really a joke and not the only thing I have going for me right now.

"You're fine. Really. But, okay … look, I don't know you that well, but can I say something?"

I nod.

"So, I've been here as long as he has and no offense, I'm just not getting the whole _dreamy_ thing from your husband…"

"Ex-husband," I correct her. "It's official now."

"Right." She pauses. "Ex-husband, then. Congratulations. So how come you two are still fighting, then?"

"We're fighting over a patient," I explain. "It's different."

"Oh." She leans back in her chair. "Still sucks, though."

"Yeah." I pick a green pepper out of my salad and leave it on the side of my plate for … no one. "It still sucks."

* * *

 _TBC. Thanks for all your responses to this story - I was thinking of many of you when writing one particular line that I bet you can figure out! As you see, I borrowed Callie from "Where the Boys Are" for the purposes of this story, which is sort of an alternate episode 6. I love that friendship. I hope you'll keep reading - and I also hope you'll keep reviewing to keep **me** accountable for updating quickly! _


	5. help yourself

**A/N: Thank you** so much for the reviews, they mean a LOT especially for this first-person departure, and I am **sorry** for the slow update! The block, it's plaguing me. Send well-wishes and chocolate, thank you thank you.

* * *

..  
 _help yourself_  
..

* * *

I eat lunch with Callie.

To be clear, this is far more earth-shattering than it probably sounds at first.

Because it means I actually eat lunch with another human being who is not (1) a patient's husband whose attention I'm desperately drinking in to avoid thinking about my failed marriage; (2) a manwhore just trying to get into my pants – and unfortunately I do mean that literally, you have no idea what Mark is capable of under a table, even an outdoor public one; or (3) the husband who hates me and is eating with me for the same reason he does anything with me: sheer obligation.

( _Ex-husband._ Damn it, I really am going to get the hang of that one of these days.)

Anyway, Callie is good company, and not just using my personally low bar.

"There's a delay with Hannah Fowler, huh?"

I nod. "I'm waiting for the chief to sign off. There's a … question about gestational age."

I don't know what's stopping me from telling her the question. ( _How much crappier can Derek make my life?_ That's the question as far as I'm concerned.) I can't decide if I'm protecting him or protecting myself – I did choose him, after all, and spend a third of my life with him.

"Didn't _you_ do the dating?"

"Yes." I use my fork and knife to pick out another green pepper from my salad and move it carefully to the side of my plate.

"Oh." Callie studies my face for a second. "Isn't dating pregnancies kind of your thing?"

I give her a pressed-lip shrug.

"You're not going to eat those?" She gestures at the little pile of green pepper cubes on the side of my plate, and I shake my head.

"Help yourself," I tell her.

(Which is a little hypocritical, since it's the one thing I can't seem to do, but … semantics, right?)

Callie crunches a green pepper for a moment, looking thoughtful.

"Abortion is funny," she says finally, when she's swallowed. She must see my curious expression because she hastens to clarify. "Not _funny,_ strange. The way no one really talks about it, in my experience, anyway. I mean, they talk around it, a _lot,_ but, like … not about it. Not directly. You know what I mean?"

 _Do I ever._

I glance over at her. "Yeah. I think I know what you mean."

Her eyes are so understanding. It makes something in my stomach turn over and I want to tell her.

 _I had an abortion,_ I want to tell her, _and even though_ _I'm an abortion provider I still can't talk about it, not like I should. I was scared, and embarrassed. I was everything a woman shouldn't be._

And not just that. I want to tell her _Derek's screwing up this case on purpose and he's going to win because Derek always wins._

And not just _that_ either. What I mean is … I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her _why._

I take a deep breath.

"Callie…"

"Ladies," Mark's deep voice interrupts; he's standing in front of our table with a big smile that sets my teeth on edge. "Am I interrupting?" He lifts an eyebrow in that way of his that can turn anything into innuendo, from _ten blade_ to _pass the salt._

And I'm irritated. Defensive, even. I mean, it's one thing to flirt with _me_ at the hospital – I pretty much made that bed, so I can't be too upset that he expects me to lie in it – but it's not fair to involve Callie. It's inappropriate. It's wrong. I mean, he's obviously making her uncomfortable, based on the way she's shifting in her seat and not looking at either one of us, and -

 _Oh._

So Callie slept with Mark too.

For a moment we all just look at each other and then Mark saunters off looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

I'm relieved when he walks away from us, and then Callie and I catch each other's eye and I wait for it to be horribly awkward.

…but both of us start laughing instead.

 _Laughing._

Honestly, I don't think I realized I still remembered how.

"I'm sorry," Callie says finally, "it's not funny, it's just …"

"…it's just Mark," I supply, and she nods. "So you're … sleeping with him?" I sound as casual as I can when I ask.

"Was," she corrects.

"Me too, was." I don't mention the last time was this morning. Because it _is_ going to be the last time. I can't take anymore. "It's just … self-flagellation in human form."

"Hot human form," Callie acknowledges.

"Yeah."

"Hotter when he isn't talking," she adds, and that makes me smile.

"Callie-"

Her pager goes off then; she glances at it and rolls her eyes. "Ugh, bad timing. Can we maybe – you want to get a drink or something later?"

"Sure."

I find myself flushing with pleasure the same way I did in fifth grade when Missy Lowell asked me over to her house for a sleepover – Missy with the perfect straight blonde hair whose parents actually liked each other, who never caught her father on top of her nanny and had to ask her brother what the hell they were doing.

Happy.

Hopeful.

 _Liked._

God, I'm pathetic.

And obvious about it too; Missy and her gang told me I talked in my sleep and spent the rest of the school year teasing me about it. In retrospect, I never should have gone to the sleepover.

Let's be real: in retrospect, I never should have done a lot of things.

…

Mark is leering at me when I pass him in the hallway.

"Now what?" I'm still annoyed at him for ruining the moment earlier. (And a little grateful, too, which just makes me more annoyed.)

"You and Torres." He nods appreciatively. "I like it."

"What are you talking about, Mark?"

He spreads his hands innocently. "You said you were swearing off men. You have my full support, that's all I'm saying. I'm all for it, in fact. I mean … as long as I get to watch."

Only Mark would interpret saying no to him to mean I was swearing off men entirely. If they could bottle that man's ego …

… knowing me, I'd just get drunk on it and then sleep with him again.

"You're disgusting," I inform him.

"You love it."

"I really don't." I push my glasses down, more for effect than anything else, hoping he'll see how serious I am if he can really see my eyes.

He just laughs. "I'll see you tonight."

"No, you won't."

"Sure I will."

"Mark. I have other plans."

He studies my face for a moment. "Not unless I can watch, you don't," he responds, then flashes a quick grin and takes off before I can yell at him.

 _Ugh._

I have no idea what I saw in him in the first place.

(Okay, fine, I do know, because I _saw_ him. The man is something else.)

And he knows it. And I knew him. And god, I should have known better. Mark once told me, years back, that he never had sex with the same woman more than five times if he could help it. He had a whole formula and everything. The first time you're feeling it out – _pun intended,_ he said, and I wrinkled my nose – the second time you're building up a base, third time you've got the rhythm, fourth time you push it to the next level and the fifth time you're done.

Everything after that is downhill, that's what he told me. It's all about the energy at the start. That, and the chase.

In other words, the man actually laid out for me his entire formula and I still slept with him. I still let him tell me he loved me, and that things were _different_ with me.

And still I told him I was pregnant.

I wasn't going to, but I did.

I'm still not really sure why. But I've had a lot of opportunity to think about it, from the moment he unfolded that ridiculous blue-and-white onesie and held it up in front of his chest to the moment my former resident finished suctioning away the last traces of the white stick that turned blue.

So why did I do it?

I don't know. Maybe I was so tired of Mark's deciding everything, defining everything. He said _I love you_ and he said _nowhere_ when I asked where he'd been; he left lingerie for me to find or didn't care whether I found it, he told me I was too good for Derek and he scowled when I kept my rings on. My life spun out of control those two months. And then finally I knew something he didn't.

For once I had something that he couldn't tell me first or twist or turn into something else. For once I had control of the narrative.

Except then I told him, and he was … _excited._

Which wasn't what I expected, needless to say.

He turned it around on me again.

In a way that whole two months in New York was just one rug pulled out from under me after another. Derek walking in. Derek throwing me out. Derek throwing _himself_ out of my life. Mark still wanting me. Mark still wanting half the nursing staff and three residents. The stick that turned blue. The onesie, the calendar, the suction in the white room. I was still spotting when I flew to Seattle. Pain. Those two months were a haze of pain but that was the first time I'd bled, visibly, since Derek left me.

I was thinking about it the first time we had sex, in Seattle. _No anesthesia,_ and I was so tense, afraid he'd notice something different, that I'd give myself away, that it hurt when it shouldn't. I convinced myself I deserved it anyway, and convinced Derek the gasps meant pleasure and the tears meant happiness because we were reconnecting.

… if he believed that he's more naïve than I thought, but Derek does tend to believe what's most convenient, especially where I'm concerned. He fell asleep afterwards and I lay awake in that uncomfortable bed in the trailer staring at the curved ceiling, wedged between Derek and the wall. Between a rock and a hard place.

Between two choices when I am terrible, the worst, at making choices.

A choice is what I made when I aborted Mark's baby. _It's about choices,_ that's what I said. It's what I _say_. It's what I told Derek, Savvy, and Weiss while we toasted the aborted Shepherd reconciliation. I never told Savvy I was pregnant; she and Weiss were deep in talks to start a family at the time – they're lawyers, they're always _deep in talks_ about something, and I used to envision a twenty-page contract filled with _heretofore_ and _whereas_ setting out their plans for procreation. That, and were both thirty-eight and I didn't feel like springing a surprise pregnancy on her when the most planning Mark and I had done was when he told me to take off my skirt.

He said he understood why I did it. That he was disappointed, but he understood. Then he invited my favorite nurse back to his apartment and screwed her in his bed when he knew I was coming home.

(Not _home,_ never _home_ , but back to his apartment.)

I stood in the doorway of his bedroom watching a perfect blonde ten years younger than I was undulating under the man who helped me destroy my husband and I realized that in some ways he did understand. And I understood too. I still do.

What I understand is that Mark and I deserve each other. He's my punishment for what we did to Derek ... and I'm his scarlet A.

…

I'm tense, checking my blackberry whenever I can, waiting for Richard to tell me next steps. I have one of the nurses keeping an eye on Hannah and sending me updates. I hate making her wait. I hate that this is out of control. I hate my husband.

 _Ex-husband._

And then my blackberry finally buzzes with Richard's summons and I'm in his office, trying to keep from tapping impatient toes while he spells out what's going to happen.

"Dr. Gilmer, the head of OB-GYN, is going to review her records as soon as possible."

"Fine." My hands are on my hips. It's not my most respectful posture, but I'm having trouble caring right now.

He examines me over the rims of his glasses. "I don't need to tell you that the procedure is off the table until we get clearance."

"No … you don't."

"Addison." His brow is knitted now. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Richard. My patient, on the other hand…"

"You've explained the delay to her?"

"Yes, I have."

There's a knock on the door.

Oh, _great._

"Who invited you?" I can't help muttering it as Derek walks into the room, looking for all the world like he's the most welcomed keynote speaker of the day.

(It must be nice to feel like every room is just waiting for you to grace it with your presence. I wouldn't know.)

"Richard invited me," Derek says simply, "so take it up with him if you have a problem."

"Oh, I plan to."

We're speaking in low voices but Richard is already glaring at us.

"Richard," Derek says in full voice. "You asked me to be here."

"Yes." Richard frowns. "Dr. Gilmer would like you to review the sonograms with her, Derek."

"Of course. I'll -"

"Why him?"

They both turn to me when I interrupt.

"I just mean I should be there too," I explain.

"Dr. Gilmer is providing a contrasting opinion, Addison," Richard says.

"So why is _he_ going to be there?"

"…to explain what his issues were with the previous designations. This isn't a competition. This is an attempt to secure accurate information about-"

"Richard," I cut in, past caring about hierarchy at all right now, "are we really going to pretend that this is a hunt for _accurate information?_ No offense to Dr. Gilmer, I'm sure she's an excellent OB-GYN, but there's no way she's going to read an ultrasound better than I can."

"It's not about skills, Addison, as I've explained to you."

I'm starting to feel reckless.

"No, it's about Derek trying to delay the procedure. It's about Derek's power play."

There we go. Reckless.

"Addison," Richard says sternly. "Derek has already said that he's not trying to delay the procedure."

"Oh, well, if _Derek said it_ , then it must be true. You don't want to call the head of neurology in to second guess him?"

There's a pause in which I'm pretty sure I've gone too far, I'm breathing heavily and glaring at Derek and just waiting for Richard to – I don't know, stop me?

The thing is ... I've never been great at stopping myself.

"Addison." Richard just shakes his head. "What's gotten into you?"

"Yes, Addison." Derek is glaring at me now. "What _has_ gotten into you?"

"Oh, shut up," I snap at him.

"Addison," Richard says sharply. "If you can't maintain a professional-"

"He's the unprofessional one!" I raise my voice even though I know I'm only digging myself in deeper. "He has no right to interfere with my patient, she's _my_ responsibility, not his-"

"-like last time?" His voice is low, but cutting.

"Shut up," I say again, my voice starting to shake this time. "Derek, I mean it."

"Richard doesn't know," Derek says quietly.

"Richard doesn't need to know," I counter, mustering every ounce of confidence into my stance that I don't feel right now.

"Richard is losing patience," the chief responds, looking from one of us to the other, and he doesn't seem amused.

"Addison…" Derek has a strange expression on his face. "I'm going to tell him if you don't."

"No, you're not. You are _not._ Derek, stop, it has nothing to do with him, it has nothing to do with you, don't you _dare_ -"

When he opens his mouth to keep talking anyway all I see is a red haze and then I'm moving forward and I have a sudden, searing pain in my right hand.

And Derek is holding _his_ hand up to his face and looking, especially for Derek, pretty damned shocked.

"What the hell, Addison!"

It's not a question, it's a scathing critique.

Derek stands there glaring at me, working his jaw back and forth.

I can't believe it.

I've never slapped anyone like that in my life.

Which I guess is why I didn't realize how much it would hurt.

(…hurt the giver, I mean. I'm well aware, from experience, how much it hurts the receiver.)

Richard is gripping my arm now, pulling me away from Derek, which is too bad because it's keeping me from rubbing my sore palm.

"Addison." He sounds as shocked as Derek looks, and disappointed to boot. "I have known you since you were an intern and I have _never_ seen anything like this. I have half a mind to suspend you right now and sort out the details later."

Richard is still holding onto me and I'm going to have to start panicking soon because I realize that I need him to let go. I need him to let go _now_ so I can press my fingers to the corners of my eyes because I can feel my breathing start to speed up in that way that means – but I won't, but I _might_ , and for one horrible second I realize I'm going to start crying.

Panic surges through me. No. _No._

"Richard."

We both look over to Derek.

"It's fine. Just forget it." He's touching his lip, where it seems like his teeth interfered when I surprised him with that slap.

"Derek," Richard says. "Are you-"

"I'm fine," Derek says, and nods in my direction. "You can let her go, Richard, she's not as vicious as she looks."

Richard lets go of me and then my fingers are on my temples and the feeling of tears recedes, thank god.

"Addison. You're very lucky-"

 _Oh yeah, that's me, lucky Addison. Can't you see how terrific my life is?_

"-because if it were up to me, I would-"

"Chief." Derek is looking at him. "Forget it."

"Sorry," I mumble.

Richard nods and then walks over to his desk, fussing with a file on his desk and leaving me face to face with Derek.

He doesn't say anything.

"Derek … I'm sorry," I say again, taking a quick glance at his face. There's a red mark on his left cheek where I hit him; half of me feels like the world's biggest heel and the other half is actually a little envious that he gets to wear his injuries on the outside.

He just nods. I guess he's going to let it go; that's Derek for you. Acknowledging that I hurt him would be like acknowledging that I matter, and that's not something he does anymore.

I don't know why I keep talking – probably because it's uncomfortable, because I'm shifting on my heels and I want to fill the silence and part of me is still shocked that I actually did it.

"Um … you can slap me back if you want," I offer.

He stares at me. "You think this is a joke?"

"Which part? Slapping you?"

He just shakes his head. "Addison … face it; you're in over your head."

"What is that, a threat?"

"No, a threat would be telling Richard to suspend you like he wants to." We're speaking quietly, out of Richard's earshot.

"You wouldn't do that." I'm not sure if I'm calling his bluff or asking for reassurance. Both seem misguided when I think about. He looks serious; his eyes are cold and determined.

And very blue, which I hate that I still notice. I hate everything about him right now, and I hope he can tell. I really, truly do.

He's just studying me like I'm a none-too-interesting sample under the microscope.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't," he suggests.

"How about … it would be petty, vindictive, and pointless."

"That's three, not one."

 _How about you promised? How's that for one reason?_

I don't say it out loud. But for just one second I think he might have heard me anyway, and I see something in his eyes that's warmer than cool disgust.

And then it disappears.

"Addison, just – don't do this."

"Don't do what?"

He shakes his head mutely.

"Addison." Richard walks back over to me, a chart in his hand, and gestures toward his couch. "Have a seat, please. We need to talk. Derek – "

They make eye contact and then Derek just nods, like they're sharing some sort of secret man code I can't understand.

Then he turns around to leave. But first he moves close enough to me to say something only I can hear, not Richard, his voice a low and cutting whisper.

"Tell me again how you're capable of _handling_ this."

And then he's gone, and I'm standing there, frozen … wishing he had just slapped me back.

* * *

 _TBC._

 _PP folks may recognize Addison's quote about her abortion - remember those innocent days when we thought that would be the saddest reference to it we'd ever get? We were so innocent then. THANK YOU again so much for reading and please keep me accountable for frequent updates. I know there are open questions now - I'm sure Richard has a few too - but all will be answered eventually. I'm gonna be direct and shameless here: pretty please review and tell me what you thought._

 ** _PS_** _Okay, y'all, I wouldn't normally do this but I want to take your temperature about something in this chapter. Does what Derek does for Addison in Richard's office come through? Is it too subtle? Is it too poorly expressed? I'm too close to the story to figure it out. **Help me help you,** as Dr. Cox on Scrubs (tied for my favorite medical program) would say. Thank you!_


	6. liability

**A/N: Thank you** to everyone who's been reading and responding. Couple quick things: I don't think Addison is crazy. I do think she's under a lot of stress, has just had the last third of her life stripped away, and her coping mechanisms in stressful times are ... not necessarily the best or healthiest, but she's certainly not alone there. What she did in the last chapter in Richard's office wasn't great, but a lot is going on in her head right now.

To paraphrase the wise **emk8** , sometimes things need to get worse before they can better ... so I hope you'll hang on and keep going.

* * *

..  
 _liability_  
..

* * *

"Addison. Do you understand the process?"

Richard is staring at me and after my outburst I know I have professional debt I need to turn back to credit.

"Yes. I understand the process," I echo obediently.

"I'll let you know when Dr. Gilmer has completed her assessment." Richard pauses. "Addison … is there anything to what I _think_ is Derek's suggestion that you are not the right physician to provide Ms. Fowler's procedure?"

I level my gaze at him, knowing how important this is. "No, there isn't." I pause. "I'm experienced with all forms of second trimester procedures, Richard," I tell him patiently. "I've been providing for more than ten years."

He pages through the papers on his desk for a moment. "You've provided at 23 weeks?"

I know how much is riding on this answer, that Richard is studying my face. I know what Derek wants to tell him, so it's key that I get in first.

"Yes, I have."

I know it seems like I'm being evasive. I am. For now … let's just say I can still hear her voice.

Derek left without telling Richard anything but I'm not sure I can trust him not to tell him when I'm not around. Funny, it's the one thing, after all that's happened, where I would have thought I _could_ trust him.

 _Like last time._ That's what Derek hissed at me earlier.

That's when I realize for the first time that when he followed me into the supply closet yesterday he must have thought that was why I was overcome in Hannah's room. That he was trying – okay, in his Derek Shepherd way, but still sort of trying – to push past how much he hated me for lying about Mark, to show up for me, and I dropped my abortion on him without any warning.

It explains a little, to me at least, about why he was so angry in the supply closet. Derek hates being wrong-footed. Especially if he already feels like he's giving ground. Remember how he turned on me when he was all chipper about our civil and mature divorce and then I broke it to him I'd stayed with Mark?

(Yeah, me too. I'm not likely to forget it anytime, either.)

I've known Derek for almost half my life. Derek doesn't like surprises.

He nods. "I've reviewed the rest of the hospitals providers. You…"

"…go later than anyone else here? I know." I look up at him for a moment. "This isn't about me. It's about teaching. "Richard … training is a problem with the new graduates. I'd like to use more than one intern. Train them."

"Once you have signoff."

"Of course."

"Addie." He pronounces my nickname with almost paternal affection, and his gaze is warm. _You like me again,_ that's what the shameful, desperate child inside of me thinks before I can stop her.

"I'm glad you're staying in Seattle," he says gently. "But I know it can't be easy."

"It's fine." I don't meet his eyes, just rub the palm that's still reddened and stinging. I don't want tenderness right now. I want distance. Wasn't that what Richard tried to teach me, all those years ago? Distance? So he of all people should appreciate it.

"If you want to talk, Addie … if you have any concerns …"

"My only concern is getting my patient the services she needs." I uncross my legs, the universal sign for _ready to go._ "If you don't need anything else … "

He just looks at me for a long moment, and I hesitate with my hands on the armrests of the chair, waiting for permission to leave, nice and deferential. If I have to play by the rules to get what I need, then I'll do it.

…

I'm running a mental list of what needs to get done before I can finally start the procedure when I walk straight past a familiar figure.

 _Training,_ that's what these interns need, that's what I told the chief.

And no one needs more training than this one.

"Karev." My voice comes out as a bark and he stops in his tracks, which is somewhat gratifying. I stride the space between us to stand in front of him. "What's your experience with abortion?"

He cocks his head. "Okay, I guess we're skipping the small talk."

 _The mouth on him_ …

"I'm talking about providing the procedure, Karev. Whatever may have happened between you and the farmer's daughter back in Idaho is none of my concern."

I know, I know. Not okay. But all that anger has to go _somewhere._

Karev has his own anger, I guess; it flashes across his face before he gets himself in check. "I've assisted on an aspiration. And … Iowa."

"Excuse me?"

"Iowa, not Idaho."

I don't acknowledge the correction. "I have a patient at 23 weeks who needs a D&E. I'm starting the procedure later today."

 _At least I hope I am._

I can see Karev's expression change at _twenty three weeks_ ; he's not so experienced that he can cover up his reactions yet. That, or he's such a loose cannon that he'll never be able to; jury's out, really. I know I'm challenging him.

"I thought I was off your service," he says.

"You are. But I am offering you the opportunity to assist on a procedure that not many physicians are trained to perform."

This should pique his interest; he's a surgeon, after all.

"I already know how to terminate a pregnancy."

"You _already know?_ Because you've done a D&C? Please." I shake my head. "This is different. And I'm guessing it wasn't covered in Iowa."

He doesn't blink at this; I'm grudgingly impressed. Maybe I wasn't wrong when I thought I saw something in him, before.

"You should learn this procedure, Karev. You should _want_ to learn, because you're an intern and sometimes I think you might even be a halfway-decent one. You should want to learn every possible way to help your patients. You should take every opportunity to hone your skills." I pause. "But please … go ahead and meet my low expectations and blow it off."

"You don't know me at all." His eyes are narrowed.

"Oh, if only that were true."

He looks right at me then. "I'm scrubbing in."

"You're an intern. You don't decide who scrubs in anywhere."

"You _just_ said…" He exhales sharply. "Fine. _May I_ scrub in … Dr. Montgomery?"

I wait just long enough to make him squirm. "You may."

…

News travels fast in a hospital. Every hospital, every city, doesn't matter. If you don't believe anything else I say, at least believe that. Because it's true.

So I'm not surprised when another intern catches up to me in the hallway to ask about a controversial procedure sweeping the surgical floor.

I _am_ a little surprised about which intern it is.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes, Dr. Grey?"

"Alex told me – I mean I heard you're doing a 23-week termination."

"That's correct."

"I was wondering if it would be possible for me to assist? I mean, Alex told me he's scrubbing in, but – I haven't been trained that late, and if there's an opportunity…"

Why wouldn't she want to learn everything she could? That's what I asked Naomi, our intern year, and she shook her head, judgment all over her face, and said _not everything is about being the best in the class, Addie._ Nai didn't get it – not then and not later.

I study her for a moment, somewhat impressed but with no interest in showing it. It seems like whatever else I might say about her … Dr. Grey gets it.

So I don't tell her it's ultimately up to Dr. Bailey which OR she'll stand in to learn a procedure – Miranda will let me have whichever intern I choose, I already know that. I could mess with her, but I don't have any interest in that either, not really.

"Yes, Dr. Grey. You may assist."

"Thank you." She pauses. "Um … Alex said it wasn't scheduled yet?"

"We're waiting for one final step. I'll let you know when we can begin."

She nods. "Thank you," she says again.

"Dr. Grey …" I call after her as she starts to leave.

She turns around.

"About our conversation the other day," I start slowly, trying to test her memory.

She looks puzzled. "I'm sorry?"

"Our conversation about your … dating life?"

"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about." She looks puzzled and I can tell she's being honest. She's not a liar. I know this because I am one, and I can always tell another liar. I always know another liar when I see one.

"Sorry," I say breezily, "I must have you mixed up with another intern."

As if another intern is burned into my memory like this one.

But at least I've confirmed she doesn't remember the last time we spoke face to face.

Not that our conversation was so terrible. And it's not that I hate her.

I mean, I don't exactly love her either. But not for the reason some people might think. Not because she screwed my husband at the prom after telling me they weren't involved.

(I don't have a lot of room to hate other people for their stupid sexual choices.)

And not even because her tiny panties ended up in my husband's jacket pocket.

If I hate her, it's because of the supply closet. Because she saw me crying.

Nothing I can do about that now – except make sure it never, ever happens again.

"Thank you, Grey," I give her a polite but dismissive smile. Interns are like puppies: they have to be reminded to _go_ and _stay_ and _heel_.

"Dr. Montgomery – "

"Yes?"

"Before, when you said our conversation – did you mean when you mean when you asked me if I was sleeping-"

" - with my husband? That's not the conversation I meant. No."

"Okay."

I have to admit enjoying how awkward she clearly feels; usually I win the awkward competition, at least in Seattle.

"Okay," she says again. "I just wanted to say … that day, when you asked, I said no, that I wasn't. And it was true. At the time, it was true."

"At the time, it was true," I repeat blankly.

"Right." She nods.

"And then you did sleep with him … what was it, a week later?"

"…yeah."

"Okay, then." I give her a polite smile. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm not really sure. … because it's true?"

"There are a lot of true things we don't tell each other, Meredith. We don't exactly _talk_ to each other."

"Right. I'm sorry. I guess I thought it would make me feel better."

"Did it?"

"No." She looks at me. "You don't seem surprised by that," she observes.

"Yeah, I have some experience in the area."

Unburdening yourself rarely feels great, I know this well. It just gives out more ammunition for people to use against you.

"I'm not sleeping with him now, either," Meredith volunteers next.

Yeah … I really didn't need to know that. I try to channel _please don't tell me more_ with my eyes, just to see if we have that sort of connection. She starts talking again – we don't, no surprise there.

"He's – preoccupied," she says. "Well, moody. Moody and preoccupied."

 _Oh, if you're going to marry him you're going to have to get used to that._

"Dr. Montgomery-"

"Yes?"

"We could be. I mean, it's possible for us to talk to each other."

"Talk to each other." I give her my most appraising look, over the top of my glasses. "That's what you want? You want the two of us to talk to each other _more_ often?"

"…not exactly," she admits.

That's the moment I decide I like her a little more.

"Good choice," I say.

I know we'll never be friends, not really. And so does she.

But she almost smiles when I say it.

And so do I.

And I kind of wish Derek were here to see it just because I know it would make him _extremely_ uncomfortable.

…

My afternoon fills up quickly with no word from Richard; I don't even have time for a much-needed coffee until I've finished consulting on a trauma case that turns into two trauma cases.

Not that slowing down is the best idea. In my experience, slowing down is rarely a good idea; slowing down is when you _think._ I'm standing by the nursing station, paging through a chart for one of my post-op patients, trying to stop my mind from spreading loosely over all the mistakes of my past, as it likes to do, when my blackberry buzzes.

Richard. _Finally._

I take off at a clip; when I round the corner on his floor I see Derek take the opposite corner, clearly heading to Richard's office, too.

I don't acknowledge him.

"Addison. Slow down."

I don't. I speed up a little, in fact, so he has to jog to catch up and we're both a little breathless by the time we get to Richard's office.

"Addison-"

"Richard, you asked to see me?" I cut smoothly in front of Derek.

"I wanted to see you both because Dr. Gilmer has completed providing her second opinion."

"And?" I glance at Derek, a little pleased that he didn't get the information before I did.

"And she confirmed your gestational dating," Richard said.

"Of course she did," I can't help saying. "Okay. So we're all set now. Right?"

"Chief-" Derek starts to intercede.

"It's not quite that simple," Richard says, looking from one of us to the other.

"Why not?"

"Once a question is raised about viability, the hospital needs to confirm that it's complying with the law."

"I don't understand. We're at 23 weeks. There's no question any more. Not that there was ever an _actual_ question … but you got your second opinion."

"The law is viability, Addison."

"And-"

"And 20 to 35% of babies born at 23 weeks survive."

He can spit statistics all he wants, it's an unfortunately loose definition of _survive_ but that's not the point.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that hospital regulations are to convene the ethics committee after 23 weeks so they can come to a unified decision on whether to proceed."

"The ethics committee … you knew that." I turn to Derek, glaring, and he takes half a step back, out of arms' reach.

He doesn't have to worry about it. I'm far too angry to slap him now. This angry? I'm only going to think more clearly.

This angry … he'd better watch out.

"It's a liability issue," Derek says mildly. "The hospital-"

"Oh, please. It's not your job to protect the hospital from liability. You're not chief yet, did you forget? _Oh_." I pause. "Wait _._ Is _that_ what this is about?

"You know it's not," Derek says sharply.

"You're trying to make sure you're the next candidate for chief. You want to be the hospital board's hero so they don't forget your name when it's time to approve you as the next chief of surgery."

"Stop it _._ " Derek's face is flushed, his eyes are glittering. I see him clench his fists. It's obvious I'm getting to him.

"Richard, were you aware of this? That your star neurosurgeon is using _my_ patient to prepare for his coronation? I mean, come on, Derek, have a little patience, the body isn't even cold yet."

"Addison, _shut up_!"

To be honest, watching him lose control first is immensely gratifying.

(Hey – I never said I was a good person.)

"Derek," Richard says sharply. "Calm down."

"Richard." I turn to him, keeping my voice modulated, even kind. "I think I've upset him. Tell Derek you're going to make him chief – he obviously thinks so. Go ahead and tell him in front of me."

"Addison, that's enough." Richard's voice is deep and firm, even severe, but I just turn to Derek.

"I guess you didn't know he promised me chief, too?"

"You?" Derek spits.

" _Addison._ " Richard is glaring at me now and Derek is looking from one of us to the other. His message couldn't be clearer: _you're done._

But I'm not. I keep going.

"And why do I suddenly think if we gathered all the department heads here right now they might have something similar to say? What do you think, Richard? Is Preston free? I'm sure this is a conversation that would interest him too …"

That when I run out of steam. Richard looks smaller than usual, his head slightly bowed. For once he looks his age. And I remember that he's not the one I really wanted to hurt – even if it's only just becoming clear to me how much he's been moving the chess pieces around all this time.

"Addison." Richard just looks at me, shaking his head. "I've known you since you were an intern and lately I think I don't know you anymore at all."

 _Sometimes I feel the same way_. I don't say it out loud, though.

"You're not the same Addison Shepherd you used to be."

Well, I'm _not_ Addison Shepherd. Not anymore. I'm Addison Montgomery, which just happens to be what I was as an intern, too. Montgomery then, and now Montgomery again. Everything in between is just a memory.

"This isn't personal, Addison." Richard sighs. "The ethics committee needs to be involved when the procedure is approaching viability. I have to ensure we avoid liability, that it's an appropriate use of the hospital's resources – that's my responsibility."

I just nod. I'm standing between Richard and Derek and it's never been clearer that It's just me. I'm the only one. And I'm tired of showing them my hand.

So I speak quietly and firmly. I know I haven't really done my part to dispel the hysterical-woman thing by going off on Derek in front of our boss twice in the same day, that's why it seems very important that they hear me now.

Rational.

Persuasive.

 _Right._

"Chief. You're saying it's a liability issue. But it shouldn't be a liability issue," I say with as much finality as I can. "It's a patient safety issue. I know every place that will go past 23 weeks. I _know_ what she'll have to deal with if we can't help her here. It doesn't matter how much they want to help; they don't have our equipment or our training. They have to transport; we have our own trauma center. She can stay overnight here, be monitored. I'm not sending her out to walk through a wall of screaming protestors when she's already terrified. She needs my help, Richard. I took an oath. It's _not_ a liability issue."

Richard looks unmoved. "You're not to provide any further services toward termination until the ethics committee has decided how to proceed."

I don't say anything.

"And whatever _this_ is," he looks back and forth between Derek and me, his expression somewhere between disappointment and disgust, "stays out of my office and my hospital from now on."

"Dr. Sh – Dr. Montgomery," Richard's eyes are very serious when he turns to me. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal," I respond, and turn to leave before I really do get myself suspended. Being self-destructive is only satisfying up to a point.

"Addison." Derek catches up to me outside Richard's office.

"Leave me alone."

He keeps pace with me anyway.

"Look, can we just … it's not about getting chief, Addison, you have to know what I was trying-"

"I don't care what you were _trying_ to do. I care what you did. Which is hurting an innocent patient because of a problem with me, and I swear, Derek, if something happens to her-"

"That's exactly what I was trying to avoid!" He spreads his hands. "You _know_ I wouldn't-" He breaks off abruptly. "I was there, Addison. I was there the last time, remember?"

"Just stop. I don't want to hear it."

"Of course. You can't take a minute to consider whether you might actually be wrong about something, that I might actually be able to-"

" _No._ I'm not going to fight with you, Derek. All I want is to help my patient," I tell him. "I want to help my patient … and I want you to stay the hell away from me."

And I spin on my heel and take off in the opposite direction, leaving him standing alone.

...

His words fill my head.

 _I was there, Addison._

Over and over.

 _I was there, Addison._ I _was there the last time, remember?_

It's true, he was there. So was I. And neither of us should have been. See, there's a reason I don't talk about it. There's a reason I'm glad Richard had already left for Seattle when it happened. And there's a reason I don't want him to know.

Do _you_ want to know?

Because I'll tell you. I will. But if you ask me, the worst thing about _telling_ is that once a story is out there ... you can never go back.

* * *

 _TBC. I promise, next chapter she's going to tell you. And I promise that as bad as things seem between Addison and Derek now, I have A Plan, and this story is Going Somewhere. Did anything get accomplished in this chapter? I think so. But I know this story is somewhat ... unconventional, at least for me, but I appreciate everyone who's stuck with it. And keep going - because the next few chapters will be game-changers. Please review and let me know what you think!_


	7. what you remember

**A/N: Thank you** to everyone who's been reading and commenting. I know this story is a heavy one, and I appreciate every single one of you, anon and non-anon.

* * *

..  
 _what you remember  
_..

* * *

 _If you ask me, the worst thing about telling is that once a story is out there ... you can never go back_

Vivian didn't see it that way. She said I could rewrite my story.

You know that expression, how they say history is written by the victors? She thought stories are like that. _A story is just what you remember_ , that's another thing Vivian said.

What do I remember?

I remember her face. Mostly, I remember her face. She was seventeen years old, and her name was Brenda.

I was a fellow, flush with importance and still wanting to save everyone, despite Richard's best head games. They brought her into the pit seizing and bleeding from a fall. I wasn't there, not at first.

Derek was there. So was Leo, the pediatric neuro specialist. Yeah ... peds. She was so young, just seventeen, they weren't sure which of them was in the best position to help her.

This is what Derek told me later, that someone palpated her stomach and realized it, first. And then they cut her clothes away and then I was paged.

It didn't take long to see that had inserted laminaria into her cervix. She'd been prepared for a D&E. By the state of them … it wasn't a day ago, or even two. It was far longer than it should have been. Far longer.

 _A runner._

Derek shouldn't have been there. But the infection was systemic by then, and it triggered a seizure, and she fell. And I shouldn't have been there. _Brenda_ shouldn't have been there – she should have been treated by whoever started her procedure.

She did regain consciousness, and I tried desperately to get information from her. She would only say two things at first, _Joe didn't want me to,_ and _can I see him?_ I assumed she meant she wanted to see Joe, a boyfriend or partner, but she opened big brown eyes hazy with pain and said _the baby, where's the baby._

And then she seized again. And terms like _massive infection_ were being thrown around at her head while I stood between her hastily spread legs trying to figure out if there was any way to reverse her body's course.

 _The other place said I could see the baby,_ that's what she kept saying, her voice wispy and panicked, timed with her gasping breaths. _They said I could hold him. Can you help me? Can you please help me?_

 _When,_ I demanded, trying to understand what had happened, medically. _When were you there, at the other place. When, Brenda._

 _Last week …or the other week … I think. But then Joe said he wanted to keep it. He wants us to be a family._ A slow smile spread across her face, even with the pain, even with the electrodes and the doctors and nurses surrounding her, the threat of intubation as her blood pressure kept dropping.

 _You didn't go back,_ I prompted her.

 _Joe wanted to keep it. Can I see him? Can I see the baby? Please._

I remember fighting with Dr. Robards, who'd arrived by then. He wanted me to hurry. That maybe clearing the products of conception could reverse the infection. But it was too late and she wanted to see the baby and I refused to do anything but an intact D&E.

 _Am I going to die?_ Her voice thin, muffled by the oxygen mask we had to force onto her.

 _No,_ I told her. _No, you're not going to die._

 _Please … please can I see the baby?_ Her words fogged the mask.

I stood my ground and while she coded I screamed at someone, anyone, to wrap the baby and bring him back while I desperately tried to help her. And then I formed Brenda's arms around the body of her child so she could hold him, and I lowered her head, streaked with blood from the fall she took with her first seizure, so she could look at him, because that's what she wanted.

When Robards tried to call time of death I shouted him down. Derek tried next. Brenda was still warm, her limp arms falling away from the blanket-wrapped bundle when I released her, so I grabbed the baby instead. I held the baby in my arms and faced off with my husband in that cramped, sweaty cluster of a non-room, so many of us surrounding the narrow bed and just one small person in it.

 _Don't quit on her,_ that's what I screamed at Derek while I held the white-wrapped body of her child, _don't you quit on her._

 _She's gone, she's already gone._

What do I remember? Her face. How she looked at me with those big eyes, filled with pain: _Can you help me? Am I going to die?_

She died.

I lost the battle and when TOD was called I just walked out from behind the curtain with the baby's body in my arms, out through the rest of the ER, into the waiting room, until I saw him.

I knew him right away. He was at least twenty-five.

 _Joe?_

He said _yeah._ His eyes were glued to the bundle in my arms. He didn't ask about Brenda.

 _Joe. Did Brenda tell you she had to go back? That once she started she had to go back?_

I didn't give details; I didn't need to.

 _Yeah, but … she changed her mind._

I didn't have to wait long for him to say more.

 _I told her not to go back. I told her to have the baby. That what she was doing wasn't right._

There was some bluster in his voice still. _Told her,_ that's how he put it. I nodded as if this all made sense. Then I held out the bundle to him.

 _Here's your son. I hope it was worth killing his mother._

And then I walked straight out the door, in my scrubs, and walked all fifty-odd blocks home, and then I took one of Derek's bottles of scotch out into the small stamp of garden in the back of our brownstone and sat there alternately drinking and watching mosquitos land on the thin skin at my wrists and elbows. I let them bleed me and didn't protest.

And then I went to sleep. And then I woke up and didn't go to work.

And on the next day I didn't leave my bed.

When Derek tells the story, I know, he'll say I frightened him. He'll say I wouldn't speak, to him or anyone, that I wouldn't eat or dress or bathe or even call Chief Glenn to ask for time off.

 _She won't talk to anyone,_ I heard his voice telling someone on the third day, and I was too dazed to wonder who it was.

 _She'll talk to me,_ came a warm velvet voice, _don't worry,_ and then I was alone with her.

I stumbled out her name just because I was so shocked to see her in my bedroom.

 _Dr. Carlsmith?_

She was brilliant and all I ever wanted was to work with her, to get to know her. She gave advice freely but took so few fellows. From the first time I stood in her OR I knew I wanted to be like her, even in grief I remember being embarrassed that I was wearing a battered, oversized Bowdoin t-shirt, hadn't bathed in days, that Derek turned off the AC when I kept shivering so the room was hot and close, warm and damp like we were trying to grow something.

 _Addison,_ she said. I remember she sounded sad.

She sat down right on the end of the bed – the legendary Vivian Carlsmith, M.D., perched on the end of our bed – and talked to me. She told me _everyone has secrets_. She told me that she'll keep mine, if I want to study under her. Next year. _But you'll have to come back to work if you want to be my fellow._

 _Why?_ That's what I asked her. Why was she helping me, why was she here?

 _A story is just what you remember,_ that's what she said. _We have to write our own stories. Rewrite them. Write them again._ Then she stood up and looked down at me, in bed. _It's enough,_ she said. _Come back to work. It's time._

When I heard the heavy front door closing downstairs I stood up, stretching weakened legs like a baby foal trying to take its first steps. I showered, I dressed, and I walked downstairs.

 _What did Dr. Carlsmith want?_ Derek asked. He kept asking me questions, those days I was silent, even when I didn't answer.

 _She wanted to help me,_ that's all I said.

His mouth opened slightly to hear my voice, and I saw his gaze flicker down to my empty hands, and I knew what he was remembering. His arms opened and I held onto him tightly; he felt like the cocoon of the comforter in the bedroom and the sting of the mosquitoes in the garden all at once.

 _A story is just what you remember._

You see … I know what Derek remembers. He remembers me holding Brenda's baby in my arms while I screamed at him not to call time of death. That's the story he'll tell.

The baby was days past life, but he was beautiful. He was perfectly formed. And if I try to imagine myself in Derek's shoes I can see that must have been disturbing, what he saw. What he saw in me.

But that's his story, not mine.

Wide, terrified brown eyes: _Can you help me? Please, help me!_

… that one's mine.

…

I'm leaning my head against cold glass; from this corner of the south hallway I can see out to the water. Everything since I walked into Hannah's room with Derek feels like one long inhale, and I need to breathe. The water should help.

I look at the scrap of blue and then I'm thinking about our house in the Hamptons.

Well. _My_ house now, I suppose.

When we moved in there was this one cabinet in the kitchen with a weak base. The kitchen had been renovated a few years back by the previous owners, who were these DIY types – nothing like us. I think Derek was surprised I didn't want to redo it, but it had this mixed-up not-quite-right French country look that I fell in love with – you know, the weathered white wood, little iron handles, china-print backsplash – adorable. But of the cabinets was kind of sinking at the bottom. I used to point it out to Derek sometimes – he thought I was exaggerating, but I could see it starting to buckle. It was slow. It was really slow, almost invisible, each summer, and I was going to tell the caretaker, or have him call a contractor, but I never got around to it. Every time I passed the cabinet I'd study it to see if the buckling had become worse but I never made that call.

The end of _that_ story is that the cabinet did eventually give way, and we walked in on a pile of shattered blue-flowered French china plates I loved from the moment the decorator showed them to me. We walked in on the aftermath of the crash and it looked horrendous, like a tornado had blown through, and it was a disaster we'd need to clean up and figure out how to fix.

But it was also a relief … because I wasn't waiting for it to fall anymore.

…

She's alone when I walk into her room.

"How are you doing, Hannah?"

"I'm okay," she says in a small voice. "Are you – is it time to start? I keep asking, but she said she didn't …"

"Asking Nurse Taylor?"

She nods.

"Nurse Taylor said she's been speaking with you."

"Yeah." Hannah nods. "She told me you would come back. She told me you would talk to me."

"She was right. I'm back. And I want to talk to you." I smile at her. "I know the waiting is difficult, Hannah, and I'm so sorry that I can't do more to move things along."

It's already after 5:30 … almost 6. If she tests beyond 23 weeks tomorrow, Richard is going to want to review it again.

"Is it okay if I take a quick look at you?"

She nods.

I watch the images as I run the wand over her belly.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

I nod encouragingly at her.

"Tad … Tad said he found this place that we can go to … ." She pauses. "It's like … three thousand dollars. And they don't bill you after, either. I don't have that. Well, Tad thinks maybe he can get it."

I don't want to think too much about how Tad plans to get the three thousand dollars.

We talk more about this when the sonogram is finished, when she's not half naked and vulnerable to my looming stance and machinery. I sit down in the chair by her bed.

"Hannah, you should get whatever services you want, wherever you want. If you want to go somewhere else, that's perfectly fine. You have to do what's right for you."

"I don't want to," she whispers. "I want you to do it, but … I don't want to wait."

"I know the waiting is hard. I'm sorry."

"I keep just laying here and thinking about him," she whispers. "I think he's in pain."

"He's not in pain, Hannah." I place my hand on her uninjured arm.

She raises teary eyes to meet mine. "I wanted to be a mother," she says. "We didn't like … plan to have him or anything but then when it happened and I could _feel_ him, you know? I wanted to be a mother."

"You are a mother. You're his whole world right now," I remind him. "You've taken care of him all this time, and you're making the decisions you think will be best. That's what mothers do."

Nice speech, right? I have no idea what mothers do; I was raised by wolves.

It's not that I don't believe what I'm saying. Vivian used to say it, and it made a lot of sense to me. So I say it. I say a lot of things. The stakes may be higher than other professions, but doctors do plenty of winging it too.

"You really think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"I don't want to wait anymore."

"I know. I'm doing everything I can to move things along." I move my chair back slightly, putting a little distance between us. "How is your arm feeling?"

"It's okay. Dr. …"

"Torres," I supply.

"Yeah, Torres. She came in here before and looked at it and stuff. She's nice."

I study Hannah from this more distant vantage point. She keeps absently rubbing her belly with her uninjured hand. She was pregnant – unexpectedly, but making the most of it. Making the _best_ of it. And then a car slammed into her plans and then doctors did the worst part of our job: delivering terrible news no one was expecting.

Hannah made a decision. Hannah made a choice.

But I can't help her. And now she's lying here, in this bed, trapped. It's not right.

"Hannah…"

She looks up.

"I'm going to have Nurse Taylor come in and get you prepared."

"We're starting?" Her face looks eager. "Just Tad…"

"We can wait for Tad." I smile at her. "We're just … getting prepared, for now."

Hannah's already on antibiotics; I started them early. I have Nurse Taylor paged.

"You got the signoff," she says approvingly when she gets to the doorway.

I choose my words carefully.

"We're ready to get started," I tell her.

"Good." She glances into the room at Hannah's supine form. "Poor thing, waiting has been hard on her. I'm glad she doesn't have to wait anymore."

"So am I."

My procedure room is still booked, since I was supposed to get started this morning. I kept the reservation going all day. It's fine – anything emergent would have botted me automatically.

It's like any other procedure: gather the people you need. The supplies you need. Nurse Taylor will be in the room. The staccato beat of my heart inside my lab coat, pulsing tempo behind each step. There's only one person left to page.

…

He arrives with Meredith.

Interesting. I did say she could assist; I can't help but admire her tenaciousness as the two of them walk up to me outside the door to the scrub room. I wasn't planning on having her join, not now. Now when it could put her in an impossible position.

"Karev." I nod acknowledgement to him. "I'm getting started now if you still want to assist."

"I do," he says quickly. "Bailey said you were still waiting for signoff last time I checked with her so I was going to assist Dr. Lewis…"

"But you're here."

"I'm here. I want to scrub in."

"Good."

"You got the signoff?"

Meredith is asking the question, her voice a little scratchy, not accusatory at all, but I look at her coldly anyway.

 _It's not personal. It's better for you this way, trust me._

"Dr. Grey. I didn't realize you were assigned to check up on me."

"No, I-"

"I have a patient waiting for me, if you're done with your due diligence?"

She glances nervously toward the doorway.

"I'm starting the procedure, doctors," I repeat. "You can scrub in or not." I look from one of them to the other. "Both of you."

Meredith still looks wary. I wonder how much Derek has told her.

And then Karev, who's had his usual insolent look this whole time, starts to look confused, then it seems to register.

"Wait…"

"Karev." I move my glasses so I can stare him down and speak to him quietly and fiercely. "It's time to put your money where your mouth is. You like starting lawsuits, you like starting trouble? Let's see if you can actually play with the big girls."

I think he'll either laugh in my face or storm off, but even though his expression is two parts pissed off to one part wary, he stalks past me into the scrub room.

I turn to follow him.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

"Not now, Meredith," I tell her, and let the door close behind me.

Karev doesn't say anything; he's scrubbing his hands with ferocity and I do the same. I don't need words right now. I'm tired of words. I need to _do_ something. I need to do something before it's too late.

The door to the scrub room swings open with a gust of unwelcome air.

" _Addison_."

Oh, you have to be kidding me.

"Who invited you?" I turn to glare at Derek, who's standing in the doorway in his lab coat, still wearing one latex glove.

"Meredith came and got me." That explains the one glove. He walked out of a patient's room? That's not usually his style. "Addison," he repeats. "What the hell are you doing?"

I see her standing behind him.

"Meredith," I say, putting on my best disappointed-school-marm voice, holding my scrubbed hands out in front of me, "that's where you ran off to? To get Derek? Here I thought you and I were going to be friends."

"Dr. Montgomery, I'm sorry, but I was worried that you were going to – "

"To what? To treat my patient, even if your _boyfriend_ disagrees?"

"He's not my boyfriend," she says quickly.

"Mer." Derek puts out a hand – the gloved one. "It's not the time."

I stare at both of them. "This lover's quarrel is … cute, really. But it has no place in my OR, so can you please take it outside? I have a procedure to start."

"No, you don't." Derek takes a few more steps into the room.

"Yes, I do." I move closer to the door.

"Addison, don't go in there."

I ignore him and start to shoulder the door open.

"Addison!" He raises his voice, stalking forward, and for a moment my mind flashes with scenarios of how this will inevitably end but then suddenly there's a wall of blue scrubs in front of me, separating the two of us.

Then I hear Karev's insolent voice, except it's not directed at me for once.

"Dude … really? What, you're going to tackle her?"

"If I have to," Derek says grimly.

"Right." Karev sounds unimpressed. "You'll have to get past me first."

Over the blue-draped bulge of his body I can see Meredith standing just in front of Derek.

"I'm your boss," Derek snaps to Alex.

" _She's_ my boss." I can tell from the jerk of his shoulder in front of me that Karev is pointing at me when he says it. The small room is crackling with tension.

Meredith shoots me a look that says _this got away from us fast_ and in the moment, I couldn't agree more.

 _A story is just what you remember._

No one moves. The clock on the wall audibly jerks forward through the seconds and I wonder how the hell _this_ story is going to be remembered.

And whether I'll make it long enough to find out.

* * *

 _TBC. Hopefully quickly. Review and encourage me along and it will probably be even quicker..._


	8. when you know it

**A/N:** Sorry this story fell off the radar for a while. It's been giving me some trouble and I'm trying to power through anyway. I'm not that happy with this chapter, but i want to move forward with the story and the journey of a thousand painful Addek reconciliations begins with a single chapter, or however that expression goes...

* * *

 _..  
_ _when you know it  
_..

* * *

 _No one moves. The clock on the wall audibly jerks forward through the seconds and I wonder how the hell this story is going to be remembered._ _And whether I'll make it long enough to find out._

Karev and Derek are both exuding that particularly toxic testosterone that makes me feel like I'm watching the nature channel ... and not in a good way. Karev may be standing between us, but it's time for me to intervene.

"All right, you can put away the measuring tape, boys," I say as breezily as I can under the circumstances. "Karev, let's go to our patient. Grey …"

"I'm in," she says quickly.

I hope she can't see my expression behind Karev's bulk. She doesn't need to know that I'm a little impressed.

" _Meredith_." Derek sounds wounded, which I'm admittedly enjoying.

" _Dr. Shepherd,_ " she says, "Dr. Montgomery is the only one at the hospital who goes this late. I want to learn."

"Good girl," I respond, mainly because I think it will annoy her and I don't want her liking me. That will only complicate things. "You should always choose to learn. Interns should always be learning. More learning, less…" my eyes fall on Derek again. " _Dating,_ " I finish euphemistically and Grey has the good sense to look a little embarrassed.

Derek isn't giving up (for once). "Addison, don't do this."

Does he really not get that there's no surer way to get me to do something than to use those four words? It's like he never knew me at all.

He switches tactics. "Meredith," he implores.

But she just shakes her head, she's already stepped away from Derek and towards me. _Advantage Addison._ I'll enjoy it now and wait until later to remember that Derek usually ends up winning the set anyway.

Not the match. No one ever won our matches. What's the word for that?

Not draw.

 _Divorce_ … that's the one.

Derek looks from one of us to the other, and then he turns and storms out. The door is still swinging when I shoulder my way out from behind the intern wall.

"Very impressive primate display, Karev, but you can drop it now. I'm not Whitney Houston and you are definitely not Kevin Costner."

He smirks. "What's that from, an old movie or something?"

I shake my head. Karev likes to jump right from hero back to villain; he's like a miniature Mark. And if I told him that, he'd probably say _I'm not a miniature anything, trust me._ Just like Papa Bear would. Maybe those two should just date each other; it would save me a lot of alcohol money, anyway.

"I'm sorry, Karev, I almost forgot that your status as a fetus goes beyond your maturity level. Let me see if I can put this in terms you can understand. Lizzie McGuire and Gordo? That one banana in pajamas and the other one?" At Meredith's confused expression, I shrug. "I have a lot of nieces and nephews."

( … at least I used to.)

See, the one thing Derek and I didn't hash out in the lawyer's office was his family. _I only want Seattle,_ that's what he said. _She can have everything else._ I've had de facto custody of his family for years. When my niece Molly was five, she saw an old picture of Derek and his older sisters playing in the backyard with their father and asked _where's Aunt Addie?_ When Nancy tried to explain that I'd joined the family later after I met Uncle Derek, Molly just wasn't having it. Who could blame her? I was the first person she saw, under a white mask, when I delivered her red faced and screaming into the world; I was the one who remembered that she was allergic to pistachios but simply didn't care for peanuts, liked strawberry milk in her cheerios, and was staunchly in favor of the classic Grover over that upstart Elmo. And Derek? The kids loved him, don't get me wrong. Derek only has to walk into a room and people love him; I could say it's unfair, baseless, ridiculous, except I'm a _people_ too because all it took was one look over that cadaver and I was hooked.

Where was I? My nieces and nephews. Right. _We have nine nieces. We have five nephews. We_ are no longer _we_ and I have zero nieces, and zero nephews.

Numerically speaking … I have no one.

Don't feel too sorry for me, though. Not yet. You still don't know what's coming.

Karev looks at me like I'm losing it and he might not be wrong – maybe he's regretting standing up for me, or maybe, and more likely, he wasn't standing up for me at all, just standing against Derek and I happened to be on the other side. I also happen to know just how satisfying it can be to take a position against my husband.

Ex. Ex-husband. Damn it, I need shock therapy or something. It's hard enough looking for my mail under _M_ instead of _S_ and introducing myself with the name I thought I'd shrugged off along with the braces and the headgear.

I don't want the brownstone, or the Hamptons house. Why would I? Liquidated, they'll just be more cash I'll never spend. I would have taken his name, though. Kept it, I mean – I already took it. And it would be nice if I could keep my sisters-in-law, my nieces, and my nephews, but even if I seem desperate I'm not _that_ naïve. I know my mother-in-law has probably already scissored me out of family pictures and I can just hear her, too, _I knew she wasn't right for Derek, but I didn't want to interfere._

Which is a lie. She was _dying_ to interfere. But Derek married me anyway.

He married me in spite of his mother and had it been on the table in the lawyer's office, I don't think I could have stopped myself from asking for Derek-of-eleven-years-ago. Hell, I'd take Derek-of-eight-years-ago.

Actually, the really shameful part is that I probably would have taken Derek-right-the-hell-now too. But he'd never guess that.

(God, I hope he'd never guess it. It's too humiliating.)

"Dr. Montgomery, should we-"

"Yes. Let's proceed."

This is no time for distraction. Distraction kills patients. I shoulder my way into the room like I haven't just been wallowing, nodding to both interns to follow me.

…

The thing is ... Grey is good.

It's not my main takeaway but it's one of them; I see Hannah responding to her admittedly effective bedside manner; she's too skinny and sharp-angled to be maternal and yet there's something soothing about her husky voice, competent at the same time. Karev seems annoyed she's taken his thunder and I can't blame him; you have to be competitive to be a surgeon, you can't enjoy anyone else's success or you'll slip behind.

So it's Meredith Grey's hand Hannah clings to as Nurse Taylor descends, Meredith Grey's voice encouraging her to breathe deeply once Hannah has reassured me, Nurse Taylor, Karev, Grey, and the universe at large that yes, she's sure.

 _We just have to ask you one more time,_ that's what they'll say. _I know what you have to ask, I'm a fucking doctor, and I already said I was sure!_

I'm not like Hannah, though. I was awake. I was wide awake, all my senses on alert, fascinated to learn that the aspirator sounds louder when your head is at the top of the table than when it's down between the patient's knees. Maybe it's because as a doctor you have running commentary in your head all the time, like you're narrating for a student. _Commencing suction. Checking for retained products._ When I was on the table my head was empty, though. Blank.

I didn't have any instructions. I wasn't a doctor and despite what I told Hannah this afternoon I sure as hell wasn't a mother, either.

(I wasn't hurt when Derek said I'd be a terrible mother because I disagreed, you know. I was hurt because he said it.)

I was seven weeks LMP the day I lay on that cold-papered table. I lay and waited for the woman I knew as _Penny_ and her Park Avenue office referred to as _Dr. Serrano-Cohen_ to come in and sweep away my latest mistake. I lay there and I wondered why in private practice – and no insurance accepted, either – they still haven't invented a way to make the paper anything but cold. They could use real fabric, they could warm it, but then they'd have to wash it and patients would have to know someone else's sweating thighs touched the same bleached sheet theirs did. For full out-of-pocket price no one wants to know that they're marinating in a stranger's filth. _I'm fine, I'm good to go, I'm ready,_ that's what I said.

I believed it when I said it. Seven weeks is nothing. Seven weeks is seconds of suction and days of spotting and a handful of antibiotics.

 _I'm fine, I'm good to go, I'm ready._

Karev stands between the stirrups with me when I begin and Grey gently disengages Hannah, turns her over to Nurse Taylor who's spent decades doing this, and then both interns watch as, finally …

 _finally_

… I take the first steps toward terminating Hannah Fowler's pregnancy.

All we'll do today is insert the laminaria, thin sticks that will soften and dilate her cervix. And then we'll keep her here overnight; it could take twelve hours or it could take twenty-four, until she's ready.

 _I'm fine, I'm good to go, I'm ready._

There's local anesthetic but that doesn't mean she can't feel anything. I pause when I hear a sound. "You hanging in there, Hannah?"

"I'm good," she mumbles.

 _You're doing great, sweetheart,_ that's what Nurse Taylor says to her; it's what they all say whether it's true or not.

"Is ... is it over?"

"Not yet, Hannah. Just hold on a little longer."

…

I'm surprised, when the procedure is successfully completed and we're scrubbing out, that Derek isn't waiting for us to read me the riot act.

He _is_ standing outside the scrub room door, though, so I guess I still know him after all. He's wearing no gloves instead of one glove, but I still wonder if he's been waiting here the whole time. There's none of the crackling anger he was displaying before the procedure; he seems exhausted ... and resigned. He knows there's no going back now.

I should feel guilty. I know this.

(I should feel a lot of things I don't, though, so I'm used to it.)

Derek looks right at me but he's not alone out there, Nurse Grant from Richard's admin team is standing a few feet away. She has a file of paperwork and she nods at me like she's been waiting for me.

"Dr. Montgomery," she says before Derek can speak. "Did you just perform Hannah Fowler's termination?"

I see Derek out of the corner of my eye; his ears practically prick up. Maybe he's hoping I'll get dragged out of here in cuffs. Or maybe he's here to defend his precious intern. _She didn't want to do it, Dr. Montgomery's just a bad influence on her._

I look Nurse Grant directly in the eyes.

"I performed the first part of it, yes. The second part will have to wait until tomorrow."

She nods. "Dr. Webber asked me to remind you that the Ethics Committee needs an outcomes report when the procedure is completed. But it can wait until the second part."

"Understood."

She thanks me and turns to leave. Derek is staring at me with a frankly open mouth, and so are the interns.

"You had permission," Derek says slowly, "you had permission before you started."

See, that's the thing with stories.

They're also about what you know … and when you know it.

…

Don't hate me.

Derek does, I know, and this isn't going to help much in that area, but – just give me a chance here. Yes, I got last minute notice that the procedure was approved, before we started the termination. Just a flick of a button; an email it took half a second to read. No, my career wasn't on the line. Neither was Karev's, and neither was Grey's. I might be Satan _and_ an adulterous bitch, but I don't make a habit of ruining careers, even for interns who ruined both my marital reconciliation _and_ any lingering affinity I might have for black lace panties. I had to throw out five pairs when I moved out of the trailer.

And no … I didn't tell Derek I had permission. I didn't tell Karev and I didn't tell Grey.

But all three of them know now.

Derek's just blinking, his mouth still silently moving like the fish he thinks catching will turn him into a mountain man instead of a surgeon. Karev and Grey are exchanging glances and I know I'll be fodder for plenty of intern locker room rage today. What else is new? They can compare notes with Stevens. I'm well accustomed to being hated; they'll have to do a lot better than that to shock me.

And then Derek finally breaks his silence. "What … the _hell_ … is wrong with you?"

"Dr. Shepherd," I respond calmly, not really sure what to say next so it's almost a relief when he starts talking over me.

"No. Don't try to - even for you, Addison, this is…" He shakes his head. "You really are a sociopath."

I want to retort. I want to say _takes one to know one,_ I want to say _thanks so much for the compliment, honey,_ I want to say, _yeah, a sociopath you spent sixteen years with, so what does that say about you?_ I want to say _you're only mad because it turns out you're the one who was wrong and you hate that, you hate that more than anything._

He's losing control, I can tell. Derek hates being wrong-footed and I've messed up his narrative. Poor crazy Addison, can't hold a dead baby without going mute. It's enough to make the ex-husband who hates her _worry_ , even. And all along, _he_ was the one who couldn't handle it. From the moment I told him about my abortion … he couldn't handle it.

So I don't retort at all; I jerk my head to the interns who follow me like the puppies they are and we leave Derek standing in the hallway looking like the bastard child of shock and anger. In an empty exam room I turn to them: Karev looks angry, Grey pensive.

"You never had anything to worry about," I assure then, closing the door behind us.

"Oh, we had something to worry about." Karev sounds as pissed off as he looks. "We put our reputations on the line and you didn't bother to tell us we were in the clear. You played us like a couple of…"

"A couple of what … interns? That's what you are. You don't make the decisions here, Karev, how many times do I have to tell you that? Whatever happened would have fallen on me, not you."

"You can't know that for sure," Meredith says. She pauses. "Dr. Montgomery ... why didn't you just tell us?"

"I don't know, Dr. Grey, maybe I would have if we hadn't been interrupted. Which reminds me, why did _you_ try to involve Dr. Shepherd?"

"Because he asked me to tell him if you were going ahead with the procedure. He ... thought you might do it anyway. He told me he was worried about you," Meredith says quietly, and her tone grates.

"You need to learn to keep your romantic problems out of the hospital and away from your patients, Dr. Grey."

I hear a snort of disbelief and turn to give Karev my coldest look.

"Excuse me? Did you have something to say?"

"Nothing, Dr. Pot … don't let me interrupt that professional advice you're giving Dr. Kettle."

I study him for long enough that even someone as thick as he is should get the message that I'm not impressed. "Karev … since it turns out you're a slightly less terrible doctor than I thought, I might be inclined to let your disrespect slide. Once, though. Only once."

"Don't do me any favors."

" _Karev._ Be careful."

"Why should I be careful, Dr. Montgomery? _You_ weren't." He yanks open the exam room door and stalks off.

I watch him leave. "Very mature." When I turn back, Meredith is staring at me. "What?"

"Nothing." She shakes her head. "Just … nothing."

"Good. Keep it that way. "

"Wait … Dr. Montgomery. Addison."

I turn back at her use of my given name. "You had it right the first time, Grey."

"Okay. I'm sorry, I just wanted to say something, you know, Meredith-to-Addison instead of Dr. Grey-to-Dr. Montgomery."

This is how the interns talk: they have their own code, it's cutesy and young and I know we did it too, when we were in their shoes. That's part of why it's so annoying, it reminds me that I'm old.

"Fine. Talk."

She looks at me. "Derek was upset. About Hannah. But he was upset before that too, he's been ... different, for a few days now. He got into the elevator with me and he … " She pauses. "I broke up with Finn."

 _Finn._ Poor hapless vet.

"Meredith … why are you telling me this?"

"Because after I broke up with Finn, I un-broke up with him."

"You're ... dating Finn again. I see. Does he know what happened at prom?"

She doesn't answer. I guess we're only on a partly-sharing basis. I wave my hand to indicate she should continue … quickly, because I don't know how much more of this I can take.

"Something's going on with Derek," she says quietly.

"He's terminally arrogant and he can't bear the thought of being wrong. You mean other than that?"

She actually looks like she might be smiling a little bit. "I'm worried about him."

"I thought you said he was worried about me."

"I did."

"If Derek's worried about me and you're worried about him, who's worrying about you?"

Her eyes shift, and she doesn't answer.

"Do you want my advice?"

"Do you want me to answer that?"

Now I almost smile. "Being an intern is hard enough without attaching yourself to people whose problems are a hell of a lot more complicated than you can figure out in two months."

I see her mouth open, and then close again, and I know why. It's because she wants to tell me it wasn't just two months, with Derek. In her mind, it wasn't. It was two months before Satan swept into town and then it was every month after that, up until now. Every week, every day, every hour I followed my husband of eleven years down one hospital hallway after another begging him to pay attention to me. Doesn't matter if it's Sinai or Seattle Grace; sucks to be Satan either way.

Being Satan means the husband who took you back and let you share whatever passes for a bed in his midlife-crisis-trailer lay beside you all those nights cheating on his mistress. To Meredith, Derek was hers all along. I was the interlude. I was the break in the romance of the century. And it doesn't matter if it's true or laughingly, screaming false – it's what she believes.

And at the end of the day, he chose her even if she's not choosing him back.

So, there's that. Derek can't handle learning that I lived with Mark, that I terminated Mark's baby? Fine, join the club, because I couldn't handle learning that in two months the man I spent almost seventeen years with built up a one-night bar stand into Antony and freaking Cleopatra. And I couldn't handle learning that while I stood there like an idiot in a silver tinsel-draped faux-prom almost as awkward as my first one, waiting for my handsome husband to finish checking on a patient – _he's so thoughtful, so compassionate, with his patients, he'll even leave a dance with his wife to make sure his post-ops are comfortable_ – that same husband was pocketing Meredith Grey's tiny black panties.

And Finn took her back. He was waiting too, but he took her back. Maybe it will be like Derek and he'll put Meredith through a series of tests, make her jump through hoops and share a trailer smaller than her walk-in closet, call her names and ignore her in public and wait until she's thrown away the rest of her life before he changes his mind and leaves her.

(By _leaves her_ , of course I mean _screws someone else while on a date with her._ )

That's the thing: if you're me, and you sleep with Mark while you're married to Derek, you're an adulterous bitch. I'm not denying it; it's the truth. But if you're Derek, and you sleep with Meredith while you're married to Addison, even if Addison is a hundred feet away down the hall, you're a sensitive, tortured soul who was only doing his best.

The irony is Derek is _never_ doing his best. Derek just … _is_ , and the world applauds. And I'm one of them, because no matter how much I hate myself, I miss him. Fuck everything … because I miss him.

"I miss him too," Meredith says quietly.

I school my face into its most severe lines. "Excuse me, Grey?" I know I didn't say it out loud, so either Grey has talents beyond whatever she did to mesmerize Derek in those two months or I'm more obvious than I thought.

Neither choice appeals.

She just looks away from me anyway. "Never mind." She adjusts her pager on her hip. "I should go … find Dr. Bailey. And then I'll check in on Hannah and report."

"Grey ... wait."

She turns back.

"Good work in there."

She nods, accepting my praise, and leaves me alone.

…

I don't even bother to look in Derek's office. We've been driving each other to drink for years and I'm well aware the bottle of Lagavulin stashed in his bottom drawer won't cut it this time.

He doesn't raise his head when I approach him at the bar; he's bellied up with both elbows resting on the sticky surface in a way I would never have let him do if we were still married. He'll smell like a brewery later and he'll have to dry-clean his coat but if that's all the damage he takes away from this I suppose he's lucky. We both hurt each other, I know that, but somehow I was always the one who got hurt.

"Derek."

He still doesn't bother to look at me.

"I'm, uh … I'm sorry I slapped you."

He shakes his head. "Of course _that's_ what you're sorry for."

I let my chin rest in my hand. I'm tired too Joe gives me a bottle of water I didn't ask for, but it's what I want, so I take it. "I've already apologized for everything else, Derek. Repeatedly. We're divorced, I'm done with all that. Clean slate."

"Your slate is not clean."

I take a sip of water instead of answering, waiting for him to speak.

"What about turning Meredith against me?"

"You know what, Derek, I think you did that yourself."

He shakes his head again. "No. We had … we're having …. That's not the point. You turned her against me about _this._ "

"Maybe she doesn't appreciate how you're treating me?"

"How is – how can you possibly make this about you?"

"I don't know, Derek, I'm trying to put myself in her shoes. You sleep with a married guy, you get a front row seat to how he handles the aftermath, you kind of want to think he deals with it like an adult."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I guess it means if you call your wife a whore too many times your mistress starts wondering if she's next."

His eyes narrow. "You have experience in the area?"

"The only married guy I've ever slept with is you, actually."

"Let me get this straight. You're giving me relationship advice … and it involves my being _nicer_ to you." He pronounces the word _nicer_ like it's foreign to him.

(Maybe it is.)

I shrug. "Take it or leave it."

He studies me for a moment. "You were playing with fire with that patient."

"No, I was practicing medicine." I pause. "Derek … why do you care?"

"I don't."

"You cared enough to screw with _my_ patient."

" _You_ called me in for a consult."

"Okay, now we're just going in circles." I start playing with the stirrer for lack of anything else to do, bending it in two and then back the other way. "Look, Derek … what happened before, that was years ago."

He doesn't respond.

"And the situations were different."

"Why didn't you tell me you had approval?"

 _To make you squirm._

The thing is, I'm no better than he is, but even though we're divorced and he hates me I still kind of don't want him to know that.

"You were interfering," I remind him.

"So you let me think you were throwing away your medical license, what, to teach me a lesson?" He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."

You know, he says that a lot. Maybe he should start believing me.

"Derek. You really think I'd sacrifice Karev's career? Grey's? _Mine_?"

"I don't know what you'd do. I've learned a lot about you … recently."

I can tell he means more than the abortion. His eyes are soft, but they're not directed towards me. Part of me wants to reach up to touch his face, the same side I marked in Richard's office, because apparently the instinct to comfort is the last thing to go.

For me, anyway. Obviously not for him.

"Look, Derek … we don't have to get along, not really. But we do have to be civil. We're professionals. Can't we do that?"

"Can't you go back to Manhattan?"

"You know I can't," I tell him patiently. "And I'm not arguing about it. It's not up to you where I go, not anymore. If you don't want to work with me, _you_ move."

"Seattle is mine," he mutters.

"Then you should have sent me packing when I first got here instead of stringing me along for six months."

"I wasn't _stringing you along,_ " he mimics my tone in a way that makes me want to slap him again. "I was trying."

"No, you weren't."

"Yes, I was. I was trying to save the marriage _you_ destroyed."

"No, you weren't," I say again. "You wanted people to think you were trying, but that doesn't mean you were actually trying."

"I was – forget it. Just forget it. There's no satisfying you." He drains his scotch and orders another.

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

"If I did, would I have ordered another?"

Such a _Derek_ answer.

I look up anyway when Joe starts to slide a tumbler across the bar, to see if I can get him on my side.

He just gives me a sort-of sympathetic look. "I'll keep an eye on him, doc."

Derek doesn't seem to notice the exchange; he's staring into the glass like the tortured romantic hero of his own story and in spite of everything an embarrassing part of me is still tempted to lean over and press my lips against the exposed back of his neck, just under the spot where his longer hair curls. He'll smell like scotch and sadness and maybe he'll remember that once, a long time ago, he chose me. He chose me over everyone else and promised to keep loving me even though we were twenty-six and stupid and hadn't tasted anything of the world yet. We still promised.

I guess it was just one of the promises we broke to each other.

Derek glances over at me. "Still here?"

The question burns through me. It could mean so many things. The bar. Seattle. His life in general. I tied myself to him almost twelve years ago and I don't care how many lawyers we hired to sever _AddisonAndDerek_ , he's still not a stranger.

I wish he could be.

But he's not.

"Yeah. I'm still here."

His eyes are cloudy. "Why?"

"I guess that's the question." I shift in my seat and before I have to think of a better answer, my pager goes off.

911 for Hannah Fowler.

 _Shit._

All I have time to do is thrust the rest of my bottle of water at Derek before I'm bolting for the door.

* * *

 _To be continued. So, this story is already different from what I expected, but I'm continuing it anyway, and forcing myself not to go nuts on the rewrites. For those of you who thought Derek was behaving worse than Addison in the last few chapters, I feel ya. Just because he thinks he's looking out for her doesn't mean that's what's really going on, and even if the inside of Addison's head sounds like a fever dream, it doesn't mean she's actually crazy. To echo my narrator ... don't hate me. Or at least not yet, because this story has a lot more to go. Review, pretty please?_


	9. stability

**A/N:** This story has been giving me a lot of trouble, and I am so grateful for those of you who are still reading, reviewing, and interested in my continuing it. You inspire me to keep going and push through the block. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

* * *

 _..  
_ _stability  
_ _.._

* * *

 _911 for Hannah Fowler._

I run into Nurse Taylor on my breathless jog through the halls and stop short.

"What happened to Hannah?"

"Fowler? Nothing. She's stable."

"I was paged."

"Not by me. I was in there ten minutes ago and she was fine."

Odd.

And then I see Hannah propped up in bed when I get there. Karev's in with her; they're talking quietly. I can't hear what they're saying from the doorway, but she seems fine.

"Karev!" I order him out of the room with a quick gesture and wait to speak until he's outside. "Why did I get a 911 page if the patient is stable?"

" _Physically_ stable," he says.

That's all I need to stride back into the room; he follows on my heels.

"Hannah ... how are you feeling?"

Her eyes are wide when she looks up at me. She looks exhausted, but she recognizes me and I'm not worried about her mental faculties.

What's left when it comes to stability, if she's mentally and physically fine?

Oh, right. ... _emotional_.

"Hi." I smile at her when she says my name. "I wanted to check on you. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. I don't know. I feel ... funny," she says quietly, gesturing in the vague area of her midsection.

"Can I take a look?"

She starts crying as soon as I touch her, but they don't sound like tears of pain – and she denies any pain. Sadness, maybe.

"Hannah, everything's going to be okay," I tell her soothingly, doing my best to palpate her when she's starting to move with restless anxiety on the sheets. I signal the nurse, who leans in close to try to calm her and restrain her at the same time.

"I felt him moving," she whimpers. "Dr. Montgomery, he's … he's still alive."

Karev and I exchange a glance over the bed. Fetal demise occurred hours ago. Whatever your interpretation is of when life begins, his has already ended. It's just a matter now of bringing him into the world so his parents can say goodbye.

His parent _s_.

I notice Tad isn't in the room.

"Hannah," I tell her gently. "It's not uncommon to feel sensations, or…"

"It wasn't a sensation, it was _him_ , I've felt him moving a hundred times."

She's crying again.

"Hannah. It's okay." I pass her a box of tissues from the rolling table next to her bed, and when she ignores them I take one out and hand it to her.

"Where's Tad?" I ask the question gently but she tenses up, confirming my suspicions.

"I don't know," she mumbles. She rustles with the sheets. "I … need to find him."

"You need to rest," I tell her quickly, "Tad will be back soon, I'm sure."

"I'm just going to go look for him."

"Hannah. You need to stay here. You can take a walk, if you'd like, one of the nurses will go with you, but –"

"No, I … I can leave if I want to, I mean, I don't have to stay here, I didn't do anything wrong."

"Of course you didn't do anything wrong," I assure her, speaking slightly over her nervous chatter.

She's starting to swing her legs out of the bed and her movements are sloppy, frightened. _Don't do it. Don't leave._ I'm prepared to stop her; well, physically prepared if not emotionally, because I can't let her leave ...

but then she stops moving.

Karev's leaning over her, his gloves are off, he's holding one of her hands between his two large ones and talking to her in a surprisingly soothing voice.

 _You want to be here when he comes. He's coming soon. This is where you've chosen to be when he comes._

I can't tell if he's talking about Tad or the baby they'll have to bury and maybe she can't either, but she's responding to him.

And then he's talking about nonsense, pointless and meandering but somehow grounding at once. Whether it's his rough and tumble exterior – he might not be quite as tatted up as Tad, but a little ink on his back wouldn't surprise me – or something else, he seems to be calming her down.

…

"Looks like you could have handled that on your own," I tell him.

Karev's expression is grim when he leaves the sleeping Hannah to join me outside her room. "She was threatening to leave. She was _scared._ You don't want to know if your patient's about to do a runner?"

Unwelcome images fill my mind. Brenda's frightened face. _Can you help me? Am I going to die? Please … please can I see the baby?_

"Of course I want to know," I snap at him. "that was actually a _compliment_ , Karev, you might want to improve your response to them. Of course I understand if you're not used to praise."

Karev's jaw looks tight.

I realize he wasn't being overly cautious. He wasn't trying to suck up, or to ruin my night, or to show off the bedside manner that surprised me.

He has his own demons.

We all do, I can grudgingly admit. Even snarky interns. Even arrogant neurosurgeons, come to that.

"Who was it?" I ask him quietly.

"Oh, just some farmer's daughter from _Idaho_ ," he says without looking at me.

I wince a little. "I … maybe shouldn't have said that."

He shrugs. "Sticks and stones, right?" He glances into the room. "If you have this under control, my shift ended forty-five minutes ago."

"Don't let me keep you, then."

…

I leave Hannah just once, in the competent hands of her overnight nurse to grab a much-needed cup of coffee. My hands are shaking a little.

"If it isn't the featherweight champ."

Of _course_ Mark has to be in the lounge at this exact moment. Sometimes I think he has a sixth sense that lets him know when I'm feeling weak. I take a few welcome swallows of bitter coffee and ignore him; that's never dissuaded him before.

"I heard you and Derek had a little old west showdown in the scrub room today," he continues, sounding amused. When I look up he's twirling an imaginary pistol. "I have to say I'm sorry I missed it."

"I'm not."

He roots in the fridge for a cold bottle of water and I prop my hips against the counter to swallow some more coffee.

"Who told you, anyway?"

Mark shrugs. "Who didn't? People tell me things. It's a curse," he deadpans.

"You mean they think they can trust you and they're wrong."

He frowns. "Did I do something to offend you?"

Did he – oh, where would I even start with that?

The answer is _nowhere_.

I'll start nowhere and go nowhere.

I offend _me_ when I'm around him. I offend myself. Don't judge too hard until you've had to see your biggest mistake _and_ your former champion all rolled up into one annoyingly attractive package … every single day.

Derek may have moved across the country to avoid me – and I may have stayed for reasons that sometimes don't seem worth it – but Mark's presence here might be the strangest of all.

Even if it makes perfect sense.

He just looks me up and down for a moment in that way that makes me feel like I've taken off all my clothes – and sometimes leads to my actually doing just that.

"I'm heading out," he says finally. "You should stop by tonight."

"I'm sleeping here to keep an eye on my patient," I inform him.

"So that distance thing is really working out for you, huh?"

"Shut up, Mark."

He just smiles at me, that slow predatory smile, and then takes a few steps closer.

I take one step back, automatically; it's not worth playing chicken with Mark because he doesn't understand the rules, he never has. He's not trying to intimidate so much as he's trying to … dominate? Interfere, take over, I don't know, just – _be_ and I can't have that now and I don't want it so I reach behind me for the door.

"Thanks for your concern," I tell him before I duck out.

...

Hannah sleeps. Thankfully, she sleeps. It's the most merciful thing her body can do for her now as we wait for the next step.

"Hungry?"

I look over to the doorway to see Karev's bulky shadow holding a paper bag. His voice is low and Hannah doesn't stir.

"What happened to _my shift ended forty-five minutes ago,_ two hours ago?"

"I left. I came back." He shrugs and ambles into the room like he owns the place, holding out the paper bag. "It's a sandwich."

"You want brownie points, Karev? Because I don't give those out. I'm training surgeons, not suckups."

"Excuse me for trying to be thoughtful."

"You're not excused," I tell him but I do take the bag. I'm actually hungry. Very hungry. A bite or two and I'll be fine. I take three, though, and then stuff the sandwich back in teh back.

"Thanks."

He's still in the room for some reason. "That's not going to last you very long."

"Spare me the speech about taking care of myself, Karev. I'm not a damsel in distress."

"You're no damsel, anyway," he mutters, and I know I should be offended, but I'm not. He's such a child – a smug, arrogant one, a decently smart one, and one who has hidden depths in dealing with patients, even, but a child nonetheless.

He's standing in the doorway again. Three hundred thousand dollars of education to be a doorstop. "Karev – make yourself and go check on her labs."

"I'm off duty."

"And yet … you're here."

"Fine." He smirks, grabs the chart from the table and disappears. I sit back, cross my legs, and watch Hannah sleep.

Her body rises up and down softly with her breath, the highest point of her midsection the swelling where I ensured, with a needle, that the pregnancy was terminated. It could be twelve hours until she's fully softened and dilated. It could be thirty-six.

I can tell you one thing … she won't be running. Her body is a ticking clock now and I won't lose her. So I settle in for the long haul.

Distance? What's that?

…

I'm still watching her sleep, chin propped in my hand, when his shadow darkens the doorway yet again.

"Karev, are you moving in?"

He glances at Hannah, then back to me. "Shepherd's still at Joe's," he says abruptly.

Of course he is. I fight down niggling worry to glare at the messenger.

"How is this my concern?"

"I thought you would want to know. Since-"

I cut him off before he can tell me it's my fault; I don't necessarily disagree but he hasn't earned the right to pass that judgment. "Don't involve yourself in things you don't understand," I tell him icily.

" _You_ involved me," he says. "And Meredith too."

"No, I didn't – and that's beside the point. Dr. Shepherd has nothing to do with this."

"You really think I don't get it?"

"I know you don't."

"Because Shepherd is _so_ complicated. Right." His sarcastic tone is irking me. "He doesn't seem so complicated to me. He just screws up every woman he touches … simple."

"Tread carefully," I warn him.

I don't say _that's not true_ or try to defend Derek _or_ myself and that doesn't seem to escape Karev's attention.

See, an observant intern is great in the OR but less so when he's prying into your unnecessarily complicated personal life.

"Well," he says, still in that smug tone that makes me want to slap him, "I know I'm not supposed to _involve myself in things I don't understand_ , but you also might want to know that Meredith is stuck there."

"And…"

"And you let us think we were putting our career on the line so you could get one over on Shepherd, and now Meredith is cleaning up _your_ mess, so, I don't know, maybe you could do her a solid?"

His vocabulary is as crude as he is. "That's not why," I tell him coolly.

And it's not my mess.

Except … maybe it is. Kind of.

But I'm still not going to go.

"I'll stay with Hannah." He looks at me for a second and I don't care for his expression. "Assuming you're planning to go, that is," he says with exaggerated respect.

 _Ass_.

…

I do go. Of course I go.

Why? I don't know. I don't _think_ I know. But maybe for the same inarticulable reason Derek followed me out of Hannah Fowler's room two days ago and started this whole thing.

Because something has started, even though I don't necessarily want to think about what it is. Just like you can't see the end when you're too close … it's hard to see the beginning of something when you're trying to walk away.

Karev wasn't kidding that he's a mess.

I mean, it's fairly subtle as messes go – Derek doesn't do totally-losing-it, not in public anyway. But he's drunk. He's very drunk, slumped on the same barstool where I left him a few hours earlier, his head in one hand. I can't see his face, but I can see Meredith sitting next to him looking like she'd like to be anywhere else.

 _You wanted him,_ a mean part of me feels like saying, _but he's not such a hotshot brain surgeon now, is he?_

It's not fair and I know it's not fair. Other than screwing him at the prom, she hasn't done anything more than get fleeced by those damn blue eyes, the same ones that did me in. And the prom-screwing … I can judge Derek for it. I _do_ judge him for it, but Meredith … ? Well. You know what they say. People who fuck their husband's best friends in marital beds shouldn't throw stones.

( _Do_ they say it? They probably should say.)

"Dr. Montgomery," she says, sounding surprised, not a little relieved, and awfully formal considering we're not standing over a patient on an operating table, we're standing over the very intoxicated man who is both my ex-husband and her ex … whatever he is.

"How did you – oh." She stops talking. "Alex. I told him not to ..."

"Well, he did."

I glance at Derek.

"I considered calling you," she admits before I can ask anything or talk to the drunk in question. "I even looked … on his phone, he said he deleted your number, and I couldn't find you. Under S or M. Or A."

She didn't look under _W_ for _wife_ , which he used to think was amusing and I thought was adorable, once. I know how it sounds. But cell phones were new to us at one time, they were toys.

Or maybe she should have looked under _E,_ come to think of it, because maybe he's switched my contact profile to _ex-wife._

But he hasn't deleted me. I know that.

And not just because I haven't deleted him either. Derek doesn't delete things. He leaves them behind, he walks away, he moves across an entire country but he doesn't file papers. He walks away.

"Dr. Montgomery ... I'm glad you're here because I really do need to go. My shift starts at seven tomorrow."

"Right." I glance at Derek. "How, um, how's he doing?"

She makes a fairly descriptive face.

"Great," I mutter.

Derek chooses this moment to lift his head, blearily. "Addison," he says in a whiskey-smoked voice that's not quite a slur, but not quite right either, "What are you doing here?"

It's not lost on me that it's exactly how he greeted me the night I showed up in Seattle.

"I'm telling you to go home, that's what I'm doing." I keep my tone matter-of-fact.

He looks vaguely irritated by my presence – like a mild mosquito annoyance – no cold hatred, at least, but he doesn't respond. He's nursing a beer and glaring. I'm assuming Joe stopped serving him scotch because Derek usually drinks beer only under certain circumstances. He's very particular.

He's also very drunk, and a lot heavier than he looks, so I don't know what I'm supposed to do in this situation. And I don't want to figure it out myself. I want an intern, and Meredith realizes what I'm thinking the moment I look at her, unfortunately.

"I should go," she says again.

My gaze falls on Derek and then hers does too.

"I've moved on," she tells me.

I shove a piece of hair out of my eyes. "I get that and I'm happy for you, really, but I'm the one who divorced him, Meredith. So if anyone's going to play the _moved on_ card here…"

"I get that," she repeats my phrasing. "But you're choosing to get involved. I don't have to make that choice. I can choose something better."

"I … chose wrong," Derek lifts his head tells the air in melancholy fashion.

"Screw you," I tell him pleasantly. He probably won't remember it anyway. Plus he's too busy drinking himself into stupidity because the girl he chose didn't choose him. Well, that and because the girl he did choose but wishes he didn't left a tiny detail out of one procedure that was really none of his business.

Plus that one slap, but that doesn't count. It didn't even leave a mark.

"I have a patient, Derek. I can't baby-sit you."

He ignores me. Meredith's already shrugged into her coat, which doesn't bode well for helping me, but I try anyway.

"I'm leaving," she says.

" _Meredith_."

"Addison," she replies; she doesn't sound unsympathetic and her use of my first name doesn't escape me. "I'm sorry I can't help you, but I need to leave." She pauses. "I can sit with Hannah while you deal with this."

I'm this close to saying _no, you stay with Derek and I'll sit with Hannah_ but I get the distinct sense she's past negotiating. I'm envious she can move on like this – I suppose she's known him less than a year and I've _known_ him for more years than I haven't known him. But that disparity didn't stop him from choosing her over me, did it?

"Check on her and then go get some sleep before your shift," I instruct her irritably, well aware she's off the clock. "Karev's on call; he can stay until I get back. Just make sure –"

"That she's not alone. I will."

I nod. "And I'd like updates."

"Every half hour," she assures me. "More frequently if that's what you'd prefer."

"Every half hour is fine. I won't be much longer than that." _God, I hope I won't._ "And – Grey," I add, signaling our transition back to working and she accepts it smoothly, "make sure you monitor her at all times."

"I will. Good night, Dr. Montgomery." She glances at Derek, seems to think better of saying goodbye to him, and then the jangle of those irritating bells on the door signal her exit.

…

Thirty minutes passes way too quickly because I get my first update – _stable, no change_ – before Derek has answered any of my reasonable requests to try to get him home.

(I could have left him there – maybe I should have left him there – but I didn't.)

Time for another one: "Go home, Derek. Sleep it off."

He ignores me.

"Look, I'm – I know you're angry with me-"

"Not everything is about you."

I prop my head in my hand. "Not everything is about me, no. But this – you know, unless it's a wild coincidence, does seems to be."

"Of course you think that. You don't care what you do to anyone else as long as you get what you want."

"Stop." I shake my head. "You've had your say. You've already told me all about what a terrible person I am. That's finished."

"Then why are you here?"

 _I have no fucking clue._

"Because you're drunk, and … "

I stop there. _And I don't want you to make a fool of yourself?_ Well, that's not strictly true. A mean little part of me would love to see him taken down a peg.

 _I don't want you to get hurt._ That's true, because another part of me, that clinging desperate part I absolutely _hate_ sometimes, wants to make sure he's okay.

(I can usually shut that part off when necessary. When I can't – that's when I make the worst decisions of all.)

" … because you're drunk."

I glance up at Joe for help but he's serving some other patrons half a bar-length away.

"I'll call you a cab," I suggest.

He glares at me for a moment, and then a smile actually threatens one corner of his mouth. "Okay, I'm a cab."

I just shake my head, because I don't want to smile back, because the whole problem with living in this depressing city with the depressing reminders of my not-that-depressing-for-the-most-part former life is that it's full of memories.

And I don't want to remember them.

I don't want to be in my twenties with unlimited energy, young smooth bodies so drunk on sleep deprivation, so high on surgeries, that we're cracking old Abbott & Costello jokes outside the hospital while one yellow blur after another passes us by.

"Derek." I put out my hand to shake his arm a little bit and then think better of it.

Divorce is strange. It really is. You take two people who've seen each other in and through just about the most undignified and frankly sometimes disgusting situations, who've screamed and moaned and fought and cried ... and you put their clothes back on and prop them up in chairs like Raggedy Anne dolls and expect them to interact like regular people.

One thing I think I can say for sure: we're not regular people.

And Meredith's giving up on him doesn't make me feel great. Maybe it should, but it doesn't. First of all, give her some time. No one really gives up on Derek for long: witness me, the ex-wife, the one he humiliated after putting through paces, sitting here on a bar stool fiddling with a plastic stirrer and somehow unable to leave.

But the thing is … he's not great when he's drunk. He can do stupid things when he's drunk. And I get it: he's not my responsibility. Not now. Anymore than I'm his. We walked away from each other, didn't we? But I walked out of the exam room and he walked into the supply closet and even if he walked all the way across the country to get away from me we're still sort of … stuck.

I can think of only one person who's still stuck to Derek like I seem to be, who'll understand why he's still our responsibility even though he swore up and down all he wanted to do was get rid of us, even though he hates us both and I want to hate him back but some part of me I _also_ hate won't freaking let me.

And so I find myself in the unenviable position of I've been avoiding, and I pick up the phone.

"Mark?"

* * *

 _To be continued (without such a long gap, because I am pushing through, gosh darn it). I know this story is heavy and maybe unpleasant right now but I promise it's heading toward a reconciliation, in baby steps that go forward and back and are angsty and sometimes miserable just like Addek love to do._

 _Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every one of you and if you are still reading, still enjoying, still wanting more, please review and let me know._


	10. negotiations

**A/N:** _I won't be updating for a while,_ she says. _I'm gonna be off the grid,_ she says. Yeah, yeah, we've heard it before. Here's another chapter for you beautiful people to tide you over. I so appreciate every one of you for reading and responding to this experimental little piece.

* * *

..  
 _negotiations_  
..

* * *

Mark … is a phone call away. He always has been.

(It's just a question of whether that's a good thing.)

Derek is slumped semi-turned away, back to ignoring me – that's his specialty, occasionally mumbling something about being a screw-up. I can't tell if he means himself or me and maybe there's no difference.

It's true either way, right?

Pretty sure we just finished signing an agreement attesting to our equal liability for screwing everything right the hell up.

That was a fun day. When Derek put on the record that he didn't want anything from our shared past.

Thirteen years of living together, amassed collections of god knows what, music and books and art and photographs, every stupid tangible reminiscence, from the hundred-dollar bottle of olive oil that made him roll his eyes until he realized how it tasted to the fishing rod I bought him once from a store that smelled like dead things where I needed help just to figure out what a rod _was_. He loved it, that's what he said, _I love it._

But he didn't want any of it. I got custody of everything he loved _and_ everything he hated.

(Divorce is great. You should try it sometime, if you're bored and have a strong desire to get your heart ripped out and stomped on to the tune of seven hundred dollars an hour.)

And the pictures. Ah, the pictures. _Thanks_ , honey, for sticking me with every single picture of our failed marriage.

I just sat there with my best debutante smile, except it was half pissed-off smirk, and laughed it about it. Like it was funny that he was washing his hands of our entire shared history with a chuckle and a glance at the lawyer. What did he want, a pat on the back? More points for being _such_ a good guy?

I sat there and crossed my legs twice to keep them from shaking and decided that as soon as I could finagle a week off, I'd fly back to New York, get smashed with Savvy and light our wedding album on fire.

Or the whole fucking brownstone.

See, Derek wasn't actually being generous, giving me everything. Saying he wanted nothing. He was cutting me out of his life with a surgeon's precision and giving me nothing to say in return.

And, let's be clear, that was _before_ he said he never wanted to see me again.

Because that's the danger with Derek. He'll offer you the world while he lines up the knife and it doesn't matter in the end whether he thinks he's being generous or not …

You bleed out either way.

..

Mark shows up.

Of course he does. Derek's the only one of us who knows how to let go, right?

But then again all three of us are here … so maybe the problem goes deeper than just Mark and me.

Mark raises his eyebrows questioningly when I meet him at the door.

"Derek is drunk and I need you to take him home so he can sleep it off."

There's the odd feeling of rounding on a patient. Mark is smirking.

"I'm sorry, did I make a wrong turn out of the hospital and end up in 1993?"

"Very funny." I drag him with my eyes over to the bar.

Mark chuckles a little at the state of Derek but gets it under control quickly.

"What did you do to him this time?"

"Mark. Just … are you going to help him or not?"

There's no _or not._

There's never an _or not._

Derek finally looks up, bleary-eyed, when he sees Mark. He's half asleep, drained of most of his malice. There's not going to be any dramatic reunion, I suppose.

"What are you doing here?"

"Taking your sorry ass home," Mark says casually in response to Derek's question. "What are friends for?"

"You're not my friend," Derek scowls.

"And Derek's ass isn't sorry," I point out. "None of him is. He's Derek, he's never sorry for anything."

It strikes me that it might be a little unnecessary to pick on him in this state, but Mark doesn't question it and Derek doesn't seem to notice.

… since it's the three of us we're talking about, that kind of makes sense.

"Thank you for doing this, Mark."

"You can make it up to me later," he smirks, and I'm hoping Derek didn't hear that.

Maneuvering Derek out of the bar reminds me of the time the three of us moved my surprisingly heavy futon up three flights of stairs to my … second student apartment. Or maybe it was the third.

"Can you get him to my car?"

I nod and Mark just grabs one of Derek's arms and pulls it around his own neck, hoisting him to his feet.

I stop trying to help and just watch them.

They look like they probably did in high school when they were just finding their drinking feet. Except older and sadder because … yeah. At some point I want to figure out when all three of us got so old. And so sad. Because there was a time when we were so young and so happy that it seemed like nothing could come between us.

Derek's shooting me a dark look and it reminds me that I'm what came between him and his best friend. And I think maybe it was worse than the fact that I cheated on my husband.

Mark is muttering something about trying to get Derek inside the car and now I'm _really_ reminded of the futon because it definitely didn't fit in the door. Not the first time, anyway, and we were laughing and sweating and cursing … we were so young.

"Can you help?"

But the car is so small.

"It would be easier if you had a normal car and not a … compensation-mobile."

Of course he's not offended by this. He's Mark. "You and I both know I'm not compensating for anything, Addison. But if you've forgotten … you know you have an open invitation to stop by and … refresh your memory."

Ugh. My nose is wrinkling. Does this actually work on me?

(Yes. We know this. You don't have to rub it in.)

The thing is, I'm sober, and I'm focused, and that's not when _Mark_ happens. It's when I'm drunk.

Or distracted. Or vulnerable.

Finally we get him into the car.

"Will you let me know when you drop him off?"

Mark looks confused. "You're not coming with us?"

"I have a patient."

"Maybe I have a patient too," Mark counters.

I resist any urge to joke about emergency boob jobs and just school my face into its most serious lines. "Right now _Derek_ is your patient. Okay? So please … look out for him."

"Fine, _Mom,_ " Mark winks at me but the only _Mom_ he ever refers to is my former mother-in-law. I called her Mom too, even though she never really warmed to me. No idea what I'd call her now, but I have a pretty good idea what she'd call me.

(At least when her many grandchildren are out of the room.)

"Are you going to be okay with him?"

"Sure," Mark gives me what I think is intended to be a reassuring smile, but it's as wolfish as all his other smiles. "I'll give him a bubble bath, sing him some lullabies. Tell me, is he on formula yet, or am I supposed to breastfeed him?"

He grins at his own wit and I just shake my head.

"Be nice to him."

Mark shakes his head. "Between you and me, Addie … not sure I'm the one who needs that warning."

Okay, maybe I deserve that. "Thank you," I say finally … sincerely.

Really.

He pauses and for a moment I'm expecting him to say he's doing it for Derek, not for me, but he doesn't say anything at all.

And I get that too.

Sometimes it's hard to know which two of us the other one is means, or is trying to help … or is trying to hurt. We got too tangled up in each other, we three, and it was all right when we were functioning, when our threads were knitted together into something good, but when our marriage hit a snag and Derek and I started unraveling, it was Mark and I who formed the biggest snarl.

(There are probably some mixed metaphors in there, but you get the gist. It's simple, really. Me Addison, they Derek and Mark, all of us fucked up. Etc.)

"Good luck with your patient," Mark says.

"Thanks." I glance at Derek. "Good luck with yours."

He rolls his eyes.

..

Grey is sitting with Hannah just like she said she would, a text open on her lap. She's studying while Hannah sleeps. There's no sign of Tad and Grey shakes her head a little when she sees me, indicating he hasn't come back yet.

"Thank you, Dr. Grey. You should go home and get some rest."

"I'm on call tonight."

"Then you should go to an on call room and get some rest."

She nods. "Do you think Hannah will be ready in the morning?"

"It depends. Everyone responds differently to the laminaria. I'll check her cervix again in a few hours – or you can, if you're not sleeping or with another patient.

"What time should I come back?"

"I'd like to time it with a vitals check so she's already awake."

Meredith nods. "Will you page me?"

I study her for a moment. She's such a little waif of a girl, physically at least, but there's a toughness about her that's hard to miss. _Don't mess with me_ , that's what it says. _I've seen some stuff._

 _Scrappy,_ that's what people call women like her, with their deceptively delicate exteriors. When women like me, who are taller than half the men in the hospital, get tough?

They call us _bitchy._

"I'll page you. Get some sleep while you can, Grey."

..

When Hannah wakes up, she wants to talk.

She holds one hand on her belly and talks about Tad, at first. Her fears for him. His cousin got into a fight in a bar three nights ago, and maybe he's gone with him to get revenge, or whatever she called it.

Whether it's a bar in the sketchy part of town or a brownstone on the upper east side, the story is the same: Men walking away. Men letting you down.

It's not about me, and I know that, except Hannah's story is so familiar and so sad it could be about anyone.

And we talk about the baby. They hadn't chosen a name, not yet, but she said she wanted to think about it, yesterday. When Karev stops in – apparently not expecting to see me – I ignore the surprise on his face and tell him I need to speak with him.

Outside the door, he looks stubborn, like he thinks I'll tell him he shouldn't be there. I don't. "Hannah wants a _name your baby_ book," I tell Karev.

"The woman whose baby we're aborting want a name your baby book?"

I'll deal with him on terminology later.

"Our _patient_ wants a name your baby book, Karev, so if you're on voluntary call, go find her one." He's still standing there. "Now!"

I guess my tone is sharp enough to let him know I'm serious because he takes off without even his usual smirk in farewell. So he's not on call, but he's here … and there's not much difference, really.

Maybe the latter means more. I don't know.

I just know that he can't only want to help in the ways he _wants_ to help because that's the way to madness. So he leaves to find a book of baby names for a baby whose heart we've already stopped and I walk back into the soft semi-darkness of Hannah's hospital room that smells sterile and also like the cloyingly sweet little bottle of lotion she brought with her, a garish pink. It's sitting on the nightstand.

She's awake when I return.

"Dr. Montgomery," she asks, her voice soft and tired, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can, Hannah."

"Do you think I could've been a good mother?"

 _What Would Vivian Do?_

"I think you already are," I tell her.

..

"Tad will come back," she says the next time she wakes up. Her catnaps are short and I've stopped matching them with my own.

"I hope so." I smile at her. "You're going to be okay, even if he doesn't come back right away, Hannah." I ask her again if there's anyone else we can call and she sidesteps the question.

There's a social worker I want to talk to her but the last thing she needs now is more pressure, anything to scare her.

"He has to come back," she says. "He wants to hold the baby. He'd never forgive me if he didn't get that chance."

I talk to her quietly, calmly, reminding her that we don't know yet when it will be time for the procedure, we're monitoring her.

And I think it's working.

But then everything works until it doesn't.

"No," Hannah says nervously. "I mean, I get the medical stuff or whatever, but you can't take him out until Tad gets back. The baby."

"Hannah…"

"I won't let you," she says.

"Hannah," I say gently, trying to get her to match my tone, my false calm, "we talked about this when we signed your consent.

"I'll rip it up. I'll take it back."

And she's wild eyed, scared, and in the dim light her blonde hair turns dark and her pale face olive and she's _Brenda_

… and I do everything you shouldn't with a patient, promise her I'll do whatever it takes not to bring her baby into the world until his father returns from wherever the hell he went.

I'm lying. I'm _fudging_ , what you say because chocolate is nicer than not telling the truth. I'm going to do what I have to do to keep Hannah alive, healthy, and preserve her ability to have future children. In that order.

But that's not what I told her. I promised her we'd wait.

Good thing there are no interns here to witness this. My life has been one downward spiral for the past year and change … but this is one moment I don't want memorialized.

It works, though. Hannah drifts off to sleep, apparently soothed by the promises she extracted from me. I stare at the blank rectangle of the doorway, wondering if I can concentrate hard enough to make him appear.

 _Come back, Tad. Be the first guy in as long as I can remember to exceed my expectations._

* * *

 ** _To be continued ..._** _maybe not as quickly as I used to, but hey, I think I've shown I'm not going anywhere so please stick around and keep reading. This is a bit of a builder of a chapter; so hang on, because the next one is, well ... not. And I hope you'll let me know what you think!_

 _ **Note:** The always insightful **Emk8** inspired the first part of the chapter. I am amazed that ten years later we can still look at old interactions and scenes differently. Which is why I adore all of you. _


	11. expectations

**A/N:** I have a wicked big soft spot for this story. I'm so grateful that you lovers of the good ship Addison/Angst are signed on too. Thank you for all your feedback; this ride may be long but it's going somewhere...

* * *

 _..expectations.._

* * *

Karev actually digs up a name your baby book somewhere.

From the NICU? The patient library?

I don't know.

I just know he shows up in Hannah's room with a battered old copy a few inches thick with a dusty, partially ripped cover. He holds it up to show me, like he has to prove himself.

The book has obviously been handled quite a bit. One of the ears of the faded but angelic-looking baby is missing. For some reason, I start wondering where that little piece of the cover has gone. Just a shred of cardboard with a baby's ear on it. It's a somewhat disconcerting thought so I revisit it a few times, forcing myself to experience the discomfort - like poking at a healing wound.

Hannah's dozing, but Karev stands by her bed like a sentry, and I take the opportunity to caffeinate ... again.

I'll reread that article on correlations between coffee consumption and breast cancer again later.

When I return I don't even have to touch the door to see inside the room.

Karev is sitting in the chair by her bed; his back is to me, and they seem to be discussing something.

"...leader?"

It's Hannah's voice, soft and pensive.

"Yeah," Karev says.

There's a pause.

"Do Zack," Hannah requests quietly as I stand in the doorway.

"Like Zachary?" I hear the rustling of pages. "It's Hebrew. Means, uh, _remembered by god._ "

"Oh. That's nice." Another pause. "Zack was someone I knew … but it was a long time ago. I like it with a k."

She must be getting tired. There are long spaces now between names, but Karev hasn't moved from her bedside, flipping through the battered baby name book he found.

And it's keeping her calm. So I'm grateful.

I lean against the wall outside the room. I don't want to walk in and interrupt their flow ... but I don't feel right leaving, either.

She's fully quiet now, but she must be awake or signaling her desire to keep going somehow, because Karev seems to start filling in his own names.

"Richard," he suggests.

Hannah must make an inquisitive face because he responds, "My boss. Well, my boss's boss's boss, really."

"Richard," she repeats. "What does it mean?"

" _Strong ruler_. It's Norse."

"What's your name?" she asks at one point, her eyes half open.

"My name?" I peer in and see Karev still spread out in that chair by her bed, still thumbing through the baby book. "Alex. Uh, Alexander, same thing."

"Yeah." She pauses. "What does that mean?"

" _Defender of men_ ," Karev says without looking it up and that's when he looks up and notices me in the doorway.

I can see his embarrassment even in the dim light.

"Defender of men. I like that," Hannah says softly.

Karev turns his attention back to Hannah and I knock lightly on the door as if I've just arrived.

I still haven't heard from Mark and that's when I realize don't have my cell phone.

 _Shit._

How could I forget that?

I glance back and forth between Hannah, who's starting to doze again, and my empty hands.

Hannah is the priority.

But Derek … is drunk and Mark is doing one or both of us a favor. Not to mention every other form of communication.

"Karev." I nod toward him and we talk quietly at the edge of the room.

"You want me to go get your phone?" he asks when I tell him.

"You can't. You're on call."

"No I'm not."

Oh. Right. He's just a masochist.

Well, I can relate to that.

"I'll go," I tell him. "But, um, can you stay with Hannah?"

He has been already, all this time, and I wait for him to call me on it but he doesn't, just nodding instead.

"Sure."

..

There are clusters of people I vaguely recognize drinking at Joe's, doctors or nurses or others I must pass day to day in the hallway without noticing. It's not like they notice me, either; I'm either gossip fodder or another white coat alternately teaching and criticizing them. I doubt they recognize me in street clothes. I doubt they care.

I mean, I don't _really_ work in that hospital, after all. I don't _really_ live in this town. I'm just living out my punishment here, nothing more. I'm just retracing my steps ... quite literally, the ones I took earlier, to the bar. Except there's no drunk Derek. It's just me.

Alone.

I've grabbed my phone and am about to turn around and head straight back to the hospital when something catches my eyes halfway down the bar and I have one of those _oh my god maybe destiny is real am I in a movie_ moments that don't come around that often.

(But you know them when they do.)

Because I recognize the distinct ink patterns on the forearm of the patron a dozen seats down the bar.

"Tad?"

The slumped figure looks up with bleary eyes.

It's him.

In my experience ... some of the most important decisions are made in an instant.

 _Want to get a drink with me? Yes._

 _Will you marry me? Yes._

 _Aren't you tired of being ignored? Yes._

 _Yes._

God, yes, I was so tired of it by then.

So I make another split-second decision and slide into the open seat next to the father of my patient's baby.

He's staring at the rather murky surface of the bar. "How is she," he asks, no real question mark. I see the tip of his visible ear turn red.

"She's hanging in there," I tell him.

"You must think I'm a real asshole," he mumbles, "being here, I just ..."

His voice trails off and then he looks away; he's so skinny I can see the tense muscles in his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt and I think he might be about to cry.

"Tad..."

He glances over.

"It doesn't matter what I think."

"But Hannah..." His voice trails off.

"Look. I'm not going to say _Hannah needs you._ I think she thinks she does, but I also think she can do this on her own."

He blinks.

"That doesn't mean she _should_ do it on her own."

"I want ..." He stops talking. "I should be there."

I just listen.

"I ... don't know if I can."

"I've seen a lot of parents through this," I tell him quietly. "I never met anyone who regretted saying goodbye."

He scrubs at his eyes.

"The baby ... is he going to be … I, uh, I saw some stuff …"

Of course he did.

If I could rip down every inaccurate website ... or worse... but I can't. It's out there and all I can do is arm my patients so they're ready to see it.

"He's going to look like a very small baby," I tell him softly. "Your baby. And if it would make you feel better, more prepared, come back to the hospital and I'll show you some pictures to give you a general idea of what you can expect."

"No," he says immediately.

"Okay," I keep my voice calm. Maybe it's his unnatural thinness but he has the aura of a frightened rabbit, like the one that got into the pool house in the Hamptons one summer. Trapping it was a bitch. It just kept hopping frantically deeper into the house to get away from us, making things worse for itself. We couldn't seem to convince it all we wanted to do was set it free.

"Okay, Tad. You don't have to do that."

Long moments of silence ensue while he stares into his half-drunk beer.

"My cousin gave me his old carseat," he says finally. "Last week. You have to have one in the car to drive the baby home, that's what he said, it's like a law or something."

His voice is thick and there's nothing I can say to that.

It's never anything but heartbreaking, no matter how many times you witness it.

Because their baby isn't coming home, and maybe Tad's finally realized that, staring into the bottom of his beer and chancing quick glances my way.

"Why are you talking to me?"

I consider his question. "Why not?"

"You're a doctor and, like ... you have all these other patients."

"You were the only one in the bar," I tell him, not sure why I decide to strike a light tone but his thin lips actually twist up into something like a smile. So maybe it was right. Then his smile drops.

"Hannah thinks I'm a coward," he mutters.

"No, she doesn't. She wants you to come back."

"I am a coward, though." He's peeling the label on his bottle of beer now. "I can leave, you know? I can come ... here. Get out of there. And she can't. It's not fair."

No … it's not.

"You could come back," I suggest. "Both of you could be there. Together."

"Yeah." He glances at me. "Should I?"

I could say yes. I could tell him it's his fatherly duty, his duty as a partner, his duty as a human being, suck it up, whatever.

But I don't.

Just like Hannah's decision … this one needs to be his.

"What do you think?"

He rips another piece of wet label off. "I should be there," he mutters.

I lean back in my seat. "You still could be," I tell him casually, "if you wanted."

He picks at the label. Some of it is sticking to his fingers.

"Well." I adjust the lapels of my jacket, even though there was nothing wrong with them. "I should be getting back to the hospital."

"Okay," he mumbles.

"Tad? We could ... walk together, if you're leaving too."

He glances over. "I have to take a leak," he says.

 _Charming_.

"Go ahead. I'll wait."

I close out his tab – ethics be damned; anyway, he's only had two beers. Joe gives me a sympathetic glance. I have no idea what he thinks is going on. For all he knows I'm picking up skinny twentysomething guys with tattoos these days. I know the rumor mill has been singing since Derek left me – hell, since I got to Seattle in the first place – so it doesn't really faze me.

Not much does these days.

"Um, Dr. Motngomery?"

Tad is back from his biological errand; he surprises me by holding the door open for me to pass through.

I nod as we make our way up the path toward the hospital.

"You think – could I walk in by myself? I just ... I don't want Hannah to know you brought me," he mutters.

His cheeks are flushed with shame.

"Tad..."

I wait for him to look at me.

"I didn't _bring_ you. I walked with you. Big difference. _You_ made the choice to be here."

I see hope flicker across his face.

(I always recognize hope, because I don't see it that often, and I don't get _not_ to crush it that often when I do.)

"Hannah doesn't need to know we walked here together; even if she doesn't know those are two different things … you should. Because they are." I pause. "Go ahead in; I'll wait."

I stand a few feet from the door of Hannah's room. Part of my job is standing a few feet away at the most critical points of people's lives: Birth. Death.

... and the challenging times, like now, when those two moments coincide.

Hannah is still a few hours away from completing the procedure. She's reunited with Tad under the watchful eye of Karev (he shoots me a look almost as if he knows ... but he doesn't; it takes year to realize how much you don't know and he's just a kid). And I'm ...

Well, I'm alone, but I'm used to that. I've been alone since long before it became official.

I'm alone, and I'm exhausted, and my clothes have passed _well worn_ into a desperation to feel clean.

I could go shower and change.

I consider this. The Archfield is less than ten minutes by car.

I could shower with my own products instead of that deathly shampoo in the locker room. Change into real clothes – I have a spare set in the car but they're not the ones I'd choose. And I don't want to wear scrubs all day. Those days are long past for me – plus, they remind me of things I don't particularly want to think about.

After a quick check-in with Karev, who assures me he's not going anywhere, I make the decision. Thankfully the hotel is practically in the hospital's backyard, because I feel my eyes start to flutter at the second traffic light. I'm tired. God, I'm tired, and unlike in Manhattan where taxis and car services ferried me around after all-nighters, here I still have to take my life into my own hands even after I've worn myself out doing the same with other people's lives.

..

The hotel is like the glass of wine you don't realize you need until you start pouring it and then every drop into the glass feels like a waste of time until it gets into your mouth. The closer I get to the hotel, the more I realize how desperately I need to be away from the hospital. The smell of it is clinging to me. I need to wash away _Dr. Montgomery_ and then put her back on in fresh clothes and the collection of products I've built up over the years to wage the war I need to feel pretty.

I won't take too long.

Being Dr. Montgomery is still better than being Addison. _Addison_ makes terrible decisions. One after the other. Addison's the one who threw her life away. _Dr. Shepherd_ is that neonatal surgeon who sold her practice and moved into a fucking trailer to try to win back her perfect husband. And lost.

Dr. Shepherd lost.

And Dr. Montgomery? She's an intern who still has ill-advised bangs. A second-year resident who's barely touched death. Until we signed the divorce papers, I hadn't seen _Dr. Montgomery_ in eleven years.

I can be quick. I need to feel clean.

But quick decisions ... can still be regretted.

I start to regret this one when I push through the revolving glass doors and that clinging _hotel_ odor tickles my nostrils, too wrong to be real, reminding me that I'm not home. That I don't have a home.

Even if the carpet in the hotel hallway is starting to feel familiar under my feet ... which is a depressing thought.

If I thought there was nothing more depressing than living in a tiny shoebox of a trailer with a husband who couldn't stand the sight of me, it's living in a hotel.

 _Living._

That's not the word you're supposed to use for hotels. You _stay_ in hotels, you don't live in them. Back when I was an intern and Savvy was a junior associate, I remember her getting shipped around for long stretches of time that seemed exotic to someone whose life moved between locker room, patient room, OR, and dingy student apartment. She lived in a hotel in Paris for six weeks doing something I don't really understand - that's our agreement, Savvy's and mine, or it was when we were friends; I don't really understand what she does and she doesn't really understand what I do but we still manage to understand each other.

I wish I'd realized what a rare gift that was when I had it and not let it slip through my fingers like I did every other good thing in my life.

Anyway, I was an overworked intern who fell asleep in cabs and bus shelters and sprawled in the bottom bunk of a dingy on-call room, and the idea of six weeks in Paris sounded glorious. I teased her a bit for complaining, I remember.

 _What about the food, Savvy, what about the wine?_

 _I'm living in a hotel_ , I remember her saying, her voice blank, _food and wine can't make up for that._

She had one of those zippy little rolling suitcases with her and then she was off to Tokyo. Savvy was accustomed to _a certain lifestyle_ \- believe me, I'm not judging - but you'd think the kind of expensive hotels the client stashed her would meet that standard. Artisan chocolates on my pillow and professionally fluffed pillows sounded pretty good to someone who fell asleep at the bus stop that morning.

 _It's depressing,_ she would say, _it's lonely,_ and I didn't understand how she could be lonely when she was working all the time, surrounded by people, or how she could complain about a whirlpool soaking tub with a glass of complimentary champagne at the end of a long day when I was so tired I would step into the shower still wearing scrubs and not understand why my body felt so heavy. I know Weiss wasn't there, but in those days he was working hours almost as crazy as Derek's and mine as a fledgling prosecutor, how much would she have seen him anyway?

I didn't realize until now, until the Archfield, that it's more. It's something else: it's something about the coldness of the sheets and the forced neutrality of the decor, about the row of rooms marching down the wall, about how the number on the door marks you as a statistic instead of a person.

Sure, a few nights is a getaway, a week or two can be a holiday, but _living_ there, living in a hotel, is ...

... fucking depressing.

I could call her and tell her I get it now.

Because Savvy got a new job and stopped living out a suitcase and I progressed through the ranks and stopped living in the locker room. But I didn't appreciate what she was saying about hotels until I moved into one.

God, it's just ... _depressing_.

And it takes a lot to stand out as depressing in the train wreck we all know my life has become since the night I swallowed bad punch and believed my husband was coming back to finish our dance.

(I know, I know. My life went off the rails before that. But I get to sulk, I get to ... _mind_ what he did to me even if no one else does. Or maybe because no one else does. See, I'm still a villain in Seattle and I don't know where else I can go, so I don't really see the narrative changing at this point ...)

Hotels are depressing ... but efficient. The staff are so polite, greeting me by name; _good evening, Dr. Montgomery; is everything all right, Dr. Montgomery; let us know if you need anything, Dr. Montgomery._

I've been working off some of my guilt by doling out oversized tips.

It's something Derek used to complain about. _You think people who aren't rich are noble, somehow. They're just people._ But I preferred to think of it my way, that the hard-working housekeeper would use the extra fifties I slipped her to buy food for her kids, winter boots, I don't know. It can't be that they're just the spectrum of regular, some good, some bad, most of them a depressing combination of the two.

The tips don't make me feel better, exactly ... but I don't think it's personal: nothing much has been making me feel better these days.

Maybe that's why I pause halfway down the hall, and then find myself turning right instead of left.

I don't want to do anything.

Not really.

I just want to find out how Derek is. And I want to ask Mark if he thinks I'm crazy for going back to the bar, and I kind of want to challenge myself to see if I can keep my clothes on.

Maybe I just don't want to be alone.

(But I like to think I'm more complicated than that.)

Whatever the reason, I end up in front of Mark's door and not mine. I hesitate with a raised fist and then fish his key card out of my wallet instead. I've kept our keys religiously separate so they wouldn't demagnetize; there's a procedure here. A protocol for everything; we're surgeons, we're precise, and with a neat click the door unlocks.

And at the same time I hear the knob turning down like Mark knew I was on my way in.

I brace myself for whatever he's going to say to me for using my key.

But I never find out because when the door is pulled all the way open it's not Mark standing there.

It's Derek.

It's Derek with wet hair falling over his forehead, a towel around his waist and a toothbrush in one hand. His eyes skim carelessly over my face like I'm a story he's already read.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he says.

* * *

 _To be I love: all of you, angsty Addison, dark roast coffee, Maddek, and reviews. Maybe in that order ... and maybe not. (And msmiumiu, I promise I will get to updating the others as well!). **Thank you,** from the bottom of my angst-loving heart, for reading and I hope you'll let me know what you think._


	12. autopilot

**You know you're winter (or a freakishly close facsimile) when you offer fluff to get over a suspenseful story ... and then update this one instead. Fluff is coming tomorrow, I promise. For now ... here's some more tangled Maddek web.**

* * *

 _.. autopilot .._

* * *

 _"Sorry to disappoint you," Derek says._

"When? Now, or when we were married?"

"Amusing," he says. "You always have a quip."

I just stand there.

"I guess that explains your ... wildly successful personal life," he adds.

"Really." I prop a hand on my hip. "I didn't know screwing an intern in an exam room, leaving your wife for her, and then _not_ dating her constituted a _wildly successful_ personal life."

"Of course not, not when you're still screwing Mark."

"I'm not still screwing Mark."

"Then why are you – forget it." He shakes his head, then glances down at his toothbrush and the towel wrapped around his waist, and then back to me. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all. I've seen you brush your teeth in a towel before, I think I can manage to keep my panties on."

"That would be a first," he mutters.

The sparring isn't his best, and he doesn't even seem to be enjoying his cheap shots. I let him anyway; he's going to have a bitch of a hangover.

"Where _is_ Mark?"

I try to look past him into the hotel room but Derek doesn't move, blocking my entrance.

"He's not here. Sorry you won't get your booty call after all."

I wrinkle my nose. "Do you have to call it that?"

"I don't know, do you have to _do_ it?"

"What did you expect me to do, Derek, after you humiliated me like that at the prom? At least I waited until it was over …"

I stop talking, because I've walked right into that one. I wait for Derek to say _not the first time, you didn't._

He says nothing at all. I guess it's too easy even for him.

"I called Mark," I say with as much dignity as I can. "I _called_ him … because maybe I needed someone in my corner."

"Your _corner_ ," he snorts, looking like he's warming up to the fight at last, "is that what you're calling it these days?"

"I didn't come here to fight with you."

"No. You came here to screw Mark."

"Actually, I came here to ask Mark how _you_ were doing, Derek, since the last time I saw you, you were about to pass out at Joe's."

He doesn't look embarrassed – of course not, he's Derek, he doesn't get embarrassed – but the tiniest hint of a shadow crosses his face.

I'll take it.

Or rather, I can't seem to _help_ taking it, because my voice softens of its own accord. "Derek … why did you drink so much?"

"Why does anyone drink?"

"To forget?" I make the obvious suggestion, waiting for him to provide the equally obvious comedic retort: _to forget what? ... I forgot._ But he doesn't, he seems to take the question seriously.

"To forget," he repeats. "You mean to forget that my wife turned my girlfriend against me?"

"She said she's not your girlfriend," I tell him – and it's not lost on me that that's the correction I make first, but there's no time to unpack that now. "And I'm your _ex_ -wife."

He studies me for a moment.

"Finally," he says.

Ouch.

I'm reminded that Derek is so precise, so _good_ at this, that he can make a single word as painful as others would need a paragraph to do.

"Oh, hey." Mark appears behind me before I can reply, dressed casually with a brown paper bag in his hand. "Derek … you didn't tell me you were going to be entertaining."

"You didn't tell me you were handing out keys," Derek counters.

"Only to the lucky few." Mark is standing very close when he says that, his hot breath tickling the top of my ear, and then he rests his hands on my hips to move me out of the way so he can walk into the room … letting them linger just long enough for Derek to look nauseated.

Or maybe it's not me, it's all the alcohol he consumed.

"Here … I got your ginger ale." Mark hands Derek the paper bag he was holding.

I guess he took his caretaking role seriously after all.

"Well, you're obviously in good hands," I tell Derek, not leaving him time to turn that into a dig at me about _Mark's hands._ "So I'll just …"

I'm still hovering in the doorway. _God_ , I hate this feeling. It reminds me of the early days of medical school when Derek and Mark were so joined at the hip that I constantly felt like a third wheel.

(Another thing I hate? That expression. The third wheel is pretty freaking important if you're talking about a car. A bicycle? That's different. People should be clearer about these things.)

Later, of course, Derek and I became the inseparable ones, and Mark was on the outskirts. He seemed to get over it quickly – Mark's terrible at holding grudges, and the unfortunate flip side is that he's surprised when anyone else holds one.

… which is inconvenient when you're the kind of guy who frequently pisses people off.

The two of them are both inside the room now, standing next to each other with similar postures, just ... looking at me.

Waiting for me to go, I guess. I don't say goodbye. I haven't said goodbye to Derek in more than a decade. Not when we'd stop by each other's offices, not the last morning in New York we walked in opposite directions to our offices, and not the night he left me.

Either time.

We'd talk on the phone often, before texting and emailing became a _thing_ , but even after. Quick logistical soundbites, _I should be home by ten, let's make a reservation for eight, did you call the caretaker about the pipes?, I'm not going to make it tonight._

That last one got more frequent in recent years.

The point is, we'd just exchange information and then hang up when we were done. No goodbye. We never talked about it either, that's just … how it was.

Maybe because marriage is one long conversation; there never _is_ a moment when one exchange ends and another begins.

Whatever the reason, the time for pontificating about marriage is over … long over. So I just give a little nod and push the door open to make my escape.

"Wait."

Mark calls out and then catches up to me before I can close the door; it swings shut behind him.

"Come back later," he says, his hands finding their way back to my hips again; we're not even three feet outside his hotel room.

"Mark, I was just trying to find out how Derek is."

"Derek is Derek." Mark shrugs, then tucks a lock of hair behind my ear with his other hand. "How are _you_?"

It's so … sleazy, but he's smart enough to know what works on me and I wouldn't admit it out loud, but I'm usually dumb enough to fall for it.

 _Usually,_ that's the key.

I takes a step back, away from his hands, and ignore his question to ask one of my own.

"Why did Derek drink so much? Did he tell you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know why he drank so much or you don't know if he told you?"

He frowns. "Don't grill me."

"I'm not."

Okay, I kind of am.

What am I supposed to do, admit that I'm a little hurt that they're back in the boys' club but Derek still hates me and Mark …

I push his hand away as it creeps up my ribcage. "Cut it out, we're in public."

"That didn't stop us when-"

" _Mark_ , I mean it."

He sighs like I've asked him to take on the world but he complies.

And then follows me down the hall to my room.

I turn around with my key in one hand, the doorknob poking into me.

"What about Derek?" I look down the hall pointedly.

"I think he can get dressed without my help. Tell you what, I'll tie his shoes for him when we're done here if it will make you feel better."

"When we're _done_ ," I repeat. "We're not doing anything."

His eyes travel the length of me appraisingly. "You look like you could use a shower."

"Thanks for the compliment."

Not that it's not objectively true … but it's the principle of the thing.

He's just standing there – just _being_ there, which is Mark's ultimate weapon when you think about it, and I try not to think about it because I'm the one who comes out looking terrible.

So I slide the key in the lock and push the door open.

He follows me, and then leans against the closed door, just ... looking. Not at me. Past me.

At the room, maybe. My room looks exactly like his.

Big.

White.

Empty.

Are we the two most pathetic people in Seattle?

"What's wrong?" He frowns. Now he's looking at me.

I shake my head. "You're only asking that so I'll let you shower with me."

"I'm _asking_ you that because you look like something's wrong." There's a flicker in his eyes - actual concern?

For two seconds, and then he grins that wolfish, predatory grin. "You're going to let me shower with you either way," he smirks.

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are."

"No, I'm not."

How do we keep getting into grade school playground arguments about sex? Those two things should _not_ go together.

"Derek said we'd be bad parents," I blurt, not sure why the words slip out.

 _Because you can't control yourself around Mark, which is the root of all your problems._

… well, that and my fundamental flaws as a human being. Which, as both Derek and Mark have enjoyed pointing out for different reasons at different times, are substantial.

"You and me, I mean," I clarify. "He said we would be bad parents."

"Derek's an ass," he says casually, as if it explains everything.

"An ass that you're trying to get to be friends with you again. An ass in your hotel room. An ass you went out to buy _ginger ale_ for."

Schweppes. The ginger ale will be Schweppes; I know that for sure even though I couldn't see inside the paper bag. Derek's not picky ordinarily but give him Canada Dry when he's got a hangover and he'll gag.

Mark shrugs. "He's an ass … but he's still family."

And there it is.

That's why Mark's going to end up back in, and I'm always going to be outside. Standing in the doorway.

"Addison." Mark shakes his head. "Come on, who cares what Derek thinks?"

I shrug.

"You didn't want the baby," he reminds me.

 _God, if only it were that simple._

Of course it's that simple in Mark's head.

"If you'd kept it, you'd be pregnant right now," he muses, studying me as if he's trying to picture it.

"Yeah, I guess I would."

His eyes drift up and down my torso. "Your boobs would be pretty big by now, huh?"

Ugh.

I shake my head at him. "And you wonder why I think you would be too immature to be a parent?"

He looks vaguely offended – it's okay, he won't be for long. He's Mark, insults slide off him like water. It's the validation he craves.

"I could have done it, you know," he says.

"Done what?"

"Grown up."

"You think?" I study him for a moment. "Then why didn't you?"

"You didn't give me a _chance_ ," he says with surprising fierceness. "If you'd kept the baby, we could have stayed in New York, and I could have grown up. I _could_ have. I could have done it all. The family thing, the kid thing. You know. Get one of those kid-backpack things and wear it on the subway."

"You never take the subway."

"I could have started. Chicks love when guys wear babies."

"Do you hear yourself, Mark? Do you actually _hear_ yourself?"

He doesn't say anything.

I prop a hand on my hip. "How many women did you sleep with while we lived together in New York, Mark?"

"Only one that counted," he growls, and he pulls me toward him.

"That's not going to work," I warn him – optimistically, I will admit, because my traitorous body craves touch and I have to force it not to melt against the hard planes of his chest.

When he dips his head to kiss me I manage to turn my face away, which is ... something, at least. His lips just skim over my neck and I steel myself against the waves of sensation that seem so easy for him to produce.

Everything seems easy to him.

So why is everything so hard for me?

Giving in to Mark is hard.

 _Not_ giving in to Mark is hard.

Talking to Derek is hard.

 _Not_ talking to Derek is hard.

"Mark ... stop," I tell him. "Go back to Derek. I'm not sleeping with you. I'm showering, _by myself_ , and then I'm going back to work, and you can nurse him through his hangover."

"You're the one who made me take care of him!" He sounds outraged, which is no surprise; he's not used to not getting his way.

I close the door on his look of confusion and annoyance and lean back against it in the same position he did, surprised at so many things – like that the door doesn't burn through my blouse when there was so much heat coming off his body – but most of all …

Most of all I'm surprised that I can still surprise myself.

And then I take the shower I so desperately need.

Alone.

Just me and the hot water spray and products that smell more like _clean_ and less like _despair._

I'm exhausted.

I'm beyond exhausted.

I haven't slept decently since … I don't even _know_ when, maybe the last time in that claustrophobic trailer when I actually thought we were getting somewhere, when I actually thought he was trying. That he might care. And I let myself drift off against his shoulder while he played with my hair like he used to and no, it wasn't our sleigh bed in the brownstone or the antique four poster at the summer house. But it was … it was something.

And now?

Now … I have nothing.

Nothing except a big empty hotel bed where they change the sheets every morning, even the mornings I never _un_ make it, just stumble back down the hall at dawn to shower off the night before.

The showers never really help.

But even this bed, this strange square of hotel loneliness – I wish I could crawl into it.

My body is pulled toward the bed, the pillow, _sleep_ , but I've been refusing my body what it needed for a long time.

All doctors have.

And then we go to work and tell our patients what _their_ bodies need.

It's sheer autopilot that gets me out of the shower, into a robe, that dries my hair and applies my makeup and finds an outfit to wear, a skirt and blouse expertly laundered by the hotel at some exorbitant fee that people like me pay so we keep our outsides looking the exactly opposite of our insides:

Unruffled.

Put together.

 _Not_ a mess.

I move through the hotel room still on autopilot, thanking god for muscle memory as I move forward through sticky molasses exhaustion, toeing into heels, pulling my hair back with a clip, loading my phone into my bag, and my keys – I have a system, I have to have a system, or I wouldn't be able to get out of the house – well, the hotel now – on as little sleep as I allow myself.

Thank god for autopilot.

Or not.

Because I don't realize it until I've driven drunk on lack of sleep to the hospital, parked on an angle that I can only get away with thanks to the sticker on my car that announces its driver is Very Important, and made my way into the hospital with steps that are far more confident than I am and dropped my bag on the nurses' desk so I can start sifting through the charts that have piled up for me overnight.

And Nurse Tyler passes me another folder and I reach for it with my left hand.

That's when I realize that autopilot … is a bitch.

No, not just a bitch. A fucking Benedict Arnold.

Because I see exactly where Nurse Tyler's eyes have drifted and I realize that after telling everyone the divorce was final, changing my name on every freaking piece of paper in the hospital – it took half a day; do you think Derek lost half a day of work like I did? – I'm once again wearing my rings on my left hand.

Goddamn it.

I must have picked them up out of the dish on the chest of drawers where they're still sitting – I know, I know, but I still haven't decided what to do with them – because …

… it doesn't matter why. What matters is that autopilot put them on my finger and now I'm wearing them and they suddenly feel like they're cutting off the circulation to my left hand.

My left arm.

My heart.

I can see my epitaph now:

 _Here Lies Addison Adrienne Forbes Montgomery Not-Shepherd-Anymore  
1966-2006 (never had to turn 40, lucky bitch)  
Beloved Nothing  
Dead of a Three-Carat Diamond She Should Have Just Thrown in the Fucking Bay_

Yeah, I'm pitying myself right now. Sue me. No one else in this town spares any pity for me. So yes, I have to pick up the slack on my own.

And yes … autopilot is a bitch.

That, or it's out to get me like everything else in my life is.

But I have no time to contemplate this, to take off the rings, or even to feel sufficiently embarrassed because my pager vibrates against my hip and then I see Karev jogging down the hall toward me.

"She's at six centimeters," he tells me as he approaches.

We both know what that means.

It's time.

* * *

 _To be continued. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, I need your reviews like Addison needs to figure out her life. I appreciate every single one of them, and they make my writing go faster. So please ... press that review button?_


	13. beautiful

**A/N: _I can't believe how long it's been since I updated this story. Apologies and thanks to everyone who has asked about it. This story is a bit different from any other I've written and it occasionally gets stuck. The good news: I've finally sorted out a bunch of loose strings, so if you like this story, gear up for far more frequent updates. Second post today - I guess you never really know how timing will work out! Usual warnings apply, and thank you as always for reading._**

* * *

 _..  
beautiful **  
**_..

* * *

 _It's time._

Everything else falls away.

It has to.

Am I embarrassed that I'm wearing my rings? Is a part of me hoping the earth will open up and swallow me before anyone else notices? Absolutely.

But it's not about me now.

It's about the patient.

And so I'm standing in front of the sink, pinning the rings to my pocket like I did for the last eleven years.

Oh … and my husband's – mistress, whatever she is, is washing _her_ hands right next to me.

It's déjà vu.

The bad kind.

 _I don't want someone who_ _doesn't want me, Meredith. But if there's the slightest chance he does … I'm not leaving Seattle._

Those words don't sound too terrible, do they? Looking back, I mean. I think they sound like someone who's willing to fight for love. Which is … admirable. Well, that or stupid.

And doesn't make it one bit easier that I'm still stuck in Seattle now. _I'm not leaving Seattle_. Funny to think that was once a battle cry instead of a mourner's prayer.

I catch Grey looking at me.

She must notice I'm pinning the rings to my pocket. But what the hell else am I supposed to do?

"Did you have a question, Dr. Grey?"

"No, Dr. Montgomery," she says quickly.

Karev sticks his head in the room then, with good timing – for once.

"Dr. Montgomery? Martha's here," he says.

 _Martha_. Let me explain Martha.

She's an angel. And I couldn't do this without her.

No, literally. She's the head of the Angel Squad.

The squad, these people – they're not doctors, or nurses. They don't have to be here, but they show up. They actually volunteer to walk into the saddest rooms around and try to give grieving parents something they can hold onto. They bring soft little clothes and toys and discreet cameras and they do as much or as little as families want. Whether a memory is one moment, an hour, a day … they can capture it.

They amaze me. The grace of strangers amazes me on a regular basis; work in a hospital and you'll see it too. I don't see that much grace from the people I know, the people I _choose_ to spend my time with, but strangers … sky's the limit.

"Hi, Dr. Shepherd," Martha says quietly, looking the same as the last time I saw her in the kind of pastel-printed scrubs they wear in peds. "How is the timing looking?"

 _Dr. Shepherd._ I haven't seen her in a couple of weeks – it's a good few weeks when I don't interact with the Angel Squad – and this doesn't really seem like the time to tell her I'm divorced.

I also have two none-too-subtle rings pinned to the pocket of my scrubs, which just makes things more complicated.

So I don't correct her.

And Martha. I've seen her work magic with my patients. I've seen deliver grace to the saddest of rooms.

There was a Martha in New York too, sure, but this one … she has such a good smile. Reminds me of one of my nannies – she didn't stay too long, too old for my father to screw and not good enough at keeping us quiet for my mother to advocate for her retention – but she had this sweet smile, patient, like – _it's okay, I got this._

I've seen Martha's smile before, with grieving patients, and I know that it works.

She should patent that thing.

We talk for a bit about logistics, and then I leave her in the anteroom to get her things ready.

 _Things_.

They have … it sounds flippant to say _props_ , but you know what I mean. Tiny little things for these tiny little bodies: the kinds of things the regular parents, the lucky parents, get to sort through for their newborn photoshoots or coo over in baby boutiques.

The same ones, except smaller.

 _God_ , they're small.

The ones Martha has with her today … are tiny. Soft, and warm, and tiny.

She's brought several hats – good, I've briefed her on Hannah's baby and of course she knew just what to do.

There are tiny little stretchy one-piece sleepers, swaddle bundles – all kinds of warm and lovely wraps and not all with armholes or legholes either.

For obvious reasons.

It's okay if you don't want to think about it. Most people don't. Martha does.

There's even a frilly pink dress with microscopic bows on it – just in case, even though I've told her Hannah's having a son, because sometimes at this stage you can be wrong about the sex, and Martha doesn't leave things to chance.

The other thing about Martha … she's amazingly good at sussing out the parents.

I don't know how she does it, but she always seems to know exactly which ones want the experience of sifting through the clothes, to feel like they're dressing the baby they've longed for, and which ones would find that too painful and just want a clothed baby to cuddle.

And which ones want the memory, but are too traumatized to be involved any more than that.

Did I mention that Martha doesn't get paid for this?

There are donations – I'm a hefty anonymous donor, myself – _shh_ , don't tell anyone, the Angel Squad won't be running out of funds anytime soon – but really it's a grassroots thing.

When I see people that good … I can almost have faith in humanity.

Almost.

..

"Dr. Sh – Dr. Montgomery?"

It's Maureen, a nurse I've always rather liked. Nurse Taylor, presumably, is in the room with Hannah.

"She's ready," Maureen says.

She's not.

She can't be; no one is.

But her cervix is, and I go back to the procedure room where Grey and Karev are both at the patient's side.

"Hi, Hannah, how are you feeling?"

"Tired," she says shakily, "a little … a little nervous."

"That's normal." I smile down at her and when she reaches out her hand I give her my gloved one. I'll have to change it, but that's fine.

"He's really coming," she whispers.

"He's really coming." I squeeze her hand gently. "And then you'll be able to spend time with him."

"And the … and the people …"

I've told her about the Angel Squad.

"Whatever you need, Hannah. You don't have to decide anything now."

"I want it to just be us," she whispers.

"That's absolutely fine." I squeeze her hand again, gently. "I'd like to get started now, if you're ready."

..

You don't need specifics, about what happens next.

Even if you think you do … you don't.

It will sound too weighty.

It will feel like too much.

It will be – let's face it – too sad.

I'll tell you what you need to know, though: we deliver Hannah's baby. I talk my interns through the procedure, every instrumental intervention, every step of the way. I never say the word _intact_. We place the birth control she requested when it's done, while her cervix is still open, so she'll feel less pain. So she'll have one less thing to think about.

I'll tell you that when the baby is born, when Hannah's son is here … he is impossibly small. We move him quickly to be cleaned up, to cover the missing part of the top of his head so as not to upset his parents. I will tell you that the nurse who cleans him does a beautiful job, so careful and tender with his tiny, fragile body.

When his head is covered with a soft, blue cap that hides everything that was missing, we swaddle him carefully –

Differently, because he's so tiny, resting his small body on a little kidney bean-shaped cushion and swaddling _that_ , so it's easier to hold.

And then he's wrapped in cuddly blue and white flannel like any other newborn, and they hand him to me so I can bring him to Hannah.

When I look down at him, I see that he has Tad's nose.

It's miniscule, no more than a promise, and yet the shape of it is obvious.

I look at him for another moment as the nurses move the curtain aside. Just one moment.

The fetal anomaly made him _incompatible with life._

But I'm the one who ended his life.

It was right. I know it was right. But that doesn't make it any easier. For anyone involved.

I take one more moment with the baby. I hold him carefully swaddled with the little stretchy cap covering his impossibly small head.

And then I do something that I didn't learn from Vivian.

I tell him I'm sorry.

Not out loud. Quietly enough that it would just sound like wordless whisper to someone listening, or an exhale.

Like a breath.

..

"He's beautiful," Hannah says softly. "Isn't he? He's still beautiful."

"He really is," I tell her.

It's true.

Tad is sitting next to her on the bed; one of his arms around her. His free hand keeps touching the hospital bracelet at her wrist. He's staring at the little bundle.

"Alexander," Hannah says, looking up. "Alexander Tad."

"It's a beautiful name." I glance at Tad. "Really."

"Thanks," Hannah whispers. "Um, do I have to …" She looks down at the swaddled baby, then over to Tad, then up at me. She's crying a little.

"You don't have to rush." I smile down at her, and edge the tissue box closer to Tad with as discreetly as I can. "You can spend as much time with him as you want, like we talked about."

She nods. She's stroking down the side of his tiny body, worrying the fabric between her fingers.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes, Hannah?"

"Is the … lady with the clothes still here?"

"She's still here, yes."

"Can you, um, can you ask her to come back?"

"Of course I can."

..

Martha gives me an understanding squeeze on the arm on the way in.

I'm not exactly what you'd call a _toucher_ , not with people I'm not sleeping with, anyway, but somehow with Martha it feels perfectly natural.

She heads into the room and closes the door behind her.

I stay out – Martha will take it from here. Grey and Karev are both waiting for me in the hall. Miranda Bailey is going to be thrilled with how I've monopolized them.

Still, though … she should be proud.

"Nice work in there," I tell them, quietly, because it's true.

Karev nods shortly. "I need to check in with Bailey," he says before he takes off.

And then it's just Grey.

Grey and me, that is.

"Um, Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes, Dr. Grey?"

She shifts a little, looking like she's not sure what she should say.

I try to nod encouragingly, considering my legs are shaking and I am in desperate need of coffee and every second waiting for her to talk is keeping me from addressing either of those issues.

"I was just wondering if you'd heard from … I mean, if Dr. Shepherd was okay."

"Dr. Shepherd?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Derek," she corrects, sounding a little embarrassed. "I wanted to know how Derek was doing."

I wouldn't even begin to know how to answer that.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

I don't say it meanly – at least, not purposefully so – I'm genuinely curious.

She blushes a little. "I'm, you know, I'm getting distance."

"Oh." I study her face for a moment. "I'm sorry … how exactly is asking his ex-wife how he's doing getting distance?"

"Yeah, that's a fair point. Well," she's suddenly very interested in the sleeves of her lab coat. "I should probably go."

"Meredith," I call.

She turns around.

"He'll be okay," I tell her. "He always is."

She just stands there.

"Everyone is okay, though," she says in that scratchy voice, "right? Until they're not."

She has a point.

Not that I'd ever admit it out loud.

..

Coffee, shower – they should save time in the locker room and just have coffee dispensed _in_ the shower along with that omnipresent green soap.

I'm back in my street clothes when I walk past Hannah's room again. I've been receiving updates, from Martha and from Karev, and I know that Hannah is still with her baby.

One of Martha's team steps out to speak to me for a moment.

"They want a little more time," she says.

"Of course." I look to Karev. "You're staying, I assume."

"I'm staying."

"Good."

I caught a glimpse when I peeked into the room: Hannah and Tad sitting together, holding the baby, their heads touching. It was … tender.

It made me sad.

And then it made me feel about three inches tall that I'm so lonely I can envy a patient who's just made the hardest decision of her life – just because she has someone to hold her hand.

How pathetic is that? I file it away with everything else I'd never admit out loud. The file is pretty big.

Karev is shaking his head.

"What?"

"Baby Alexander," he says.

" _Defender of Men_ ," I recite. "You made quite an impression on the patient."

He looks a little embarrassed. "I didn't do anything."

On the contrary … he did a hell of a lot for her.

But sometimes it's hard to see when you're too close.

"Is she going to be okay?" Karev gestures toward Hannah's room.

I think about what Grey said.

 _Everyone is okay, right? Until they're not._

"Yeah, she'll be okay. No complications, she's young and healthy, she'll have opportunities to try again."

Which is what everyone things.

Maybe _opportunities_ are kind of like being okay.

You'll always have more of them … until you don't.

"More kids, you mean?"

Yes, that's the clinical term for it.

I just nod, though – he's earned a little leeway.

"She wanted an IUD," Karev says slowly.

"And we placed one." I study his face for a moment. "It's very common in conjunction with a termination. It was an unintended pregnancy."

I gesture him toward the viewing room for more privacy.

"But they were excited about it," he says as soon as I've closed the door.

He sounds … young. A little petulant. He _is_ young, so maybe it's okay, but he's reminding me in an unfortunate way of Mark. Innocent enough – or is it manipulative enough? – to think that being _excited_ is enough to raise a child. To be decent parents. To keep from screwing your kid up as badly as your parents screwed you up.

"And they can be excited about another pregnancy in the future," I tell him simply.

"It just seems … extreme."

"Extreme." I blink at him. "A copper IUD. Are we talking about the same thing?"

"Not the … thing, the timing. I don't know."

Karev looks … troubled, and this isn't a zone I can give leeway. I'm still his teacher, and he still has a hell of a lot to learn. I fold my arms.

"Are you questioning our patient's right to choose her own form of birth control?"

"No," he says immediately, and when I stare at him he corrects it to a minimally grudging, "no, Dr. Montgomery."

"Then what is your concern, exactly?"

"I don't have one," he says.

"Good."

He still looks troubled.

"There's less pain done this way because the cervix is already open," I recite, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "but by all means, Karev, check out the literature on both sides. You'll find quite a few of them have my name."

Well.

My old name, anyway.

 _Addison Montgomery Shepherd, M.D._

It looks pretty damned good in a byline, if you ask me. Even better in an abstract. Best yet on a plaque, perhaps.

No hyphen. Hyphens screw up alphabetizing. You hyphenate, you get half the people filing you under _M_ for _Montgomery-Shepherd, Addison_ and half of them filing you under S for _Shepherd, Addison Montgomery-_. It's all in the order. And the Montgomery was never official; it was there if people needed it to distinguish us, and it looked damned good on paper, but for all intents and purposes, everywhere from the hospital to the DMV to the oh-so-suburban backyard barbecues of Derek's sprawling family, I was _Addison Shepherd._

I catch Karev looking at me in a way I don't appreciate … mainly because I can't define it.

It's annoying, because I'm usually pretty good at that sort of definition.

"It's just a lot of decisions to make, all at once," he says finally.

 _Welcome to being a woman._

He looks … sympathetic, actually. I remember him patiently reading out baby names to Hannah late into the night.

"You're a good guy, Karev."

He looks taken aback for a moment, and then smirks.

"What?" I'm already regretting thinking it, much less saying it.

"Nothing," he says. "It's not that I don't want to be a good guy. It's more just … I don't really think of you as the greatest judge of character."

 _Ouch_.

I mean, I can't get that huffy, not when he's right.

But still.

He seems to think he has to justify the comment, so I get the pleasure of watching him tick my less than successful conquests off on his fingers: "Shepherd … Sloan …."

"Thank you, Karev, I'm aware."

"Just saying." He shrugs. "You're better than them."

"Am I."

"Yeah," he says, making a dismissive face. He folds broad arms over his chest. "I mean, low bar, sure, but you – "

He stops talking because I've moved closer, in time with a suddenly fluttering pulse.

The thing is this.

I know decisions are hard. All of mine are hard.

I am a terrible decisionmaker.

Terrible.

Especially under stress.

Especially under _sad._

Especially when I'm sick of hurting and I'm sick of being lonely and yeah, Karev reminds me a little of a younger Mark, before everything got so fucked up. When we were still young and didn't know we'd screw up our lives.

And he's my intern, and I'm his teacher.

And it's warm and close in the viewing room; I only flicked on half the lights and the air vents are connected to the other half. I can see his chest rise and fall with his breath.

And I never said I was a good person.

So I don't really surprise myself when I move closer.

Karev, though … _he_ looks surprised.

I guess he actually thought better of me, and that might be the most depressing thought of all.

Because he was wrong.

* * *

 _To be continued_ \- _very soon if folks are still reading. I would absolutely love to know what you think, so please review and let me know._


	14. stop me

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews!** I am so glad you enjoyed the last chapter. Please rest assured (if that's reassuring) that this very much an Addek story. Will it take some legwork to get them where I want them? Oh, yes. Including some side trips. But the destination is Addek. It will take some time and it may start surprising you in the coming chapters, so I hope you will stay tuned. So. Where were we?

* * *

..  
 _stop me_  
..

* * *

We're close enough that I can feel his breath on my face – warm, not hot but warm – and time freezes for a moment.

No, I mean it. It really does.

You know that feeling, right before you kiss someone new?

 _God_ , it's almost better than the kiss itself.

Actually, in some cases, it's definitely better than the kiss itself, especially early on when you're just growing into your hormones, wobbling around in them like your first pair of three-inch heels.

(I'm a lot taller and a lot older than the first time … but sometimes I think my hormones never made it past about sixteen.)

Because we're in each other's space now – that indefinable bubble you're not supposed to cross because if you do … then there's no going back.

Because this close I can _smell_ him, a mix of the harsh green soap in the hospital locker rooms, bleach-cleaned scrubs, the cheap spicy scent of drugstore deodorant, and something else. Something a little earthier, more pungent – not sweat exactly, but just … _body._ His body. His very male body very, _very_ close to mine and he smells like man, and we're all just animals.

(Aren't we?)

Because I can feel my heart thumping. There's a fluttering in my stomach too, making its way south, and if I took the time to evaluate myself I might be embarrassed to look so desperate – pushing forty, divorced, basically _panting_ over a kid half my age who purposefully picks scrubs a size smaller so he can look extra muscular.

Like a peacock's plumage.

It works, too. He's straining his scrub top at the chest and arms and I want to ask _isn't that uncomfortable, is it really worth it,_ and I remember I'm one to talk since I won't walk down the hallway in anything less than a three-inch heel unless I'm straight from the OR.

I tell people it's for the height if they ask, _it's a male dominated profession,_ blah, blah. It sounds better than _I look hotter this way._

And maybe they're both true, I don't know.

It doesn't matter now because my eyes are lingering on his shoulders – the way they're filling up the edges of his scrub top. I'm remembering the way they looked when he stood in front of me in the scrub room, testosterone practically rising in lines off his body as he blocked Derek from me. He was close, then.

Close enough to touch.

But he's closer now.

Then he catches me looking and smirks.

 _Great_ , just what I need. To feed the ego of yet another man at this hospital.

And still … nothing.

We're still caught in this game of chicken. This close, his eyes are a spectrum instead of brown, paler around the pupil, ringed with a darker chestnut shade.

I could stop. I could stop right now. I could walk away.

I could actually make a good decision.

(Theoretically, I mean. I can't remember the last good one I actually made.)

The things is, sometimes I feel like instead of the angel on one shoulder, and the devil on the other shoulder, I have a devil on each one.

I close my eyes just for a second and imagine what the _good_ influence would say.

Hmm.

 _Don't do it, Addison_ , it might say. _You're better than this._

And that seals the deal.

Because I'm not.

So I move first.

Yeah, I'm the one who makes the first move. Surprised? Is it because you think I'm passive-aggressive? I know my husband does.

( _Ex-_ husband, whatever.)

The point is, take a look at how active I can be when I'm pushing what's left of my life off a cliff.

Somehow, _somehow_ , despite the world's most drawn out lead up, he _still_ seems surprised when my lips make contact.

Surprised in that he just stands there, for a minute, while I envision sexual harassment lawsuits and try not to notice that I can feel the heat of his skin through his scrubs.

And then he kisses me back.

Hard.

With that sheer _enthusiasm_ you have at that age, when everything is still new enough, and high enough, and tight enough, and … hormonal enough that it's exciting as hell no matter how bad a decision it is.

There's only a second of crushing sensation, in which my body that's been crying out for touch basically _seizes_ at the contact –

And then doorknob turns and we jump apart.

 _God._

And all that buildup turns to smoothing my hair down, standing up straight and regulating my breathing and answering the nurse's question like I wasn't just about three shades of arousal from making one of the stupidest sexual decisions of my life.

(And that's one area of life where I've set a pretty high bar.)

When the door closes, mercifully, I take a minute to adjust my lab coat, pulling at a few loose pieces of hair, hoping it doesn't look as disheveled as I feel, before I make reluctant eye contact.

"That … should not have happened."

He doesn't respond.

I try again: "I'm … sorry, Karev, that was – "

"Don't mention it," he cuts me off with a cheeky grin and then he actually _leers_ at me, catching me off guard, and that little flame ignited in my stomach gives a hopeful puff.

"After you." He gestures toward the door.

"Right. Of course."

Okay, so, is it tasteless, practically mounting someone in the viewing roomwhen a patient is waiting?

Yes.

I'm going to play the doctor card here, though. Different standards, you know? When we were interns, two of our cohort were caught having sex in the morgue and the only question anyone asked was if blond Sven's drapes had a matching carpet.

So we walk out like things are normal and then we're outside Hannah's room again; Karev's ahead of me and he pauses.

I watch him for a second.

I watch him watching them.

Karev … he came through today.

He came through for Hannah. For just a minute I consider how wrong I was to think Stevens would be the standout from their year.

Inside the sad little room, Hannah and Tad are still sitting with baby Alexander.

Their heads are resting against each other's, comforting each other. They look almost … peaceful.

When Karev turns around, he actually looks … tender? It throws me, and I take quick action to put a stop to it.

"Dr. Karev," I say firmly, gesturing for him to follow me a few paces down the hall, and waiting for him to reach me before I continue. "Going forward, we need to … remain strictly professional."

He raises his eyebrows. "As opposed to what?"

"As opposed to…." My voice trails off, all that certainty suddenly gone.

He looks almost amused. "One kiss and you think I need a lecture or I'll, what, fall in love with you?"

My cheeks burn. "Dr. Karev," I start sharply, but he just shakes his head.

"You think everyone is dying to get with you, don't you? You just snap your fingers and men fall into your pocket."

I guess I'm relieved he said _pocket_ , but I'm still offended. Time for defense; that's always been where I score anyway.

"Really, Karev? You didn't exactly seem unwilling in there. Maybe I'm not the only one whose judgment is … questionable."

" _Maybe_ I just like working with you," he counters.

"Grey likes working with me and she's never kissed me."

"Yeah?" He grins. "That's too bad, I had a nice mental image going."

 _Ugh_.

(I guess he also reminds me of Mark in the bad ways, too.)

"I'm still your superior, Karev. And always have been," I add.

"I'm not worried," he says easily. "You can't really do anything to me."

"Excuse me?" I prop a hand on my hip. "Why is that?"

"Because it turns out, and believe me I'm as surprised as you are, that I actually _like_ working with you, so assigning me to your service isn't much of a punishment."

"All right, then, how about I throw you off my service … permanently?"

"But you won't do that either because … let's face it, I'm good at your specialty. I know, you hate admitting it, but I also know you know it's true and you're not going to cheat patients out of … all this."

I almost laugh at the cocky grin on his face while he gestures to himself. What is it, is it something I'm putting out there? How do these guys always seem to find me?

 _Smug? Arrogant? I want to hear from you! Call Addison at 917-555-2334._

(Yes, I kept my New York number. Karev wasn't wrong about my questionable taste in men, but I do have _some_ standards.)

"Stay with the patient until she's ready to surrender. I expect to be paged immediately if there are any issues," I tell him coolly, and then walk away.

..

"I have no standards," I announce.

Callie looks up; she's sitting on a gurney with a chart in her hand. I'm taking a chance here, I get that, but I'm desperate and despite what Derek might say it's not just for male attention.

At this point, in this town, _this_ lonely? It's for any attention.

(Which is not to say Callie is a … consolation prize, or something. I actually think she's great. To the point that I have no idea why she wants to talk to me, but then again I am also a _tiny_ bit self-loathing. Maybe.)

"Tell me more," she says, closing the chart she's holding.

I take a deep breath.

"I just kissed an intern."

Callie's eyes widen. "You kissed the help!"

"I kissed the help," I admit.

" _You_ need a drink."

"I really do." I check the time.

"I'm on backup call," she says, "and I don't trust the fetus who's manning my patient. So I can't really drink."

"And I drove here," I respond.

"No drinks for us, then. Okay, so … coffee? With a rain check for the actual drink?"

"Coffee sounds great," I tell her, and she hops down from the gurney.

We turn out to be the only ones in the attendings' lounge, thank god, because this isn't exactly a conversation for public consumption. People here may not have shown much interest in talking _to_ me, but they've always had plenty of interest in talking _about_ me.

(It sucks. And I'm pretty sure the only other person who _really_ gets it … is Meredith Grey.)

"So. Which intern?" Callie takes a sip of coffee, holding the mug in both hands. It's green and yellow, with an alligator on it. Something sports-related and southern but I can't remember what offhand. It just reminds me that she's had a whole life before she came here.

Like I have.

Like everyone has.

"Addison?"

"Hm?"

"Which intern was it?" She leans in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It wasn't Grey, right? Because that would be kind of amazing, no, like, _actually_ amazing, for a few reasons, but –"

"No," I interrupt her, actually laughing a little, "it wasn't Grey." I glance around to make absolutely sure no one is in earshot. "It was Karev," I whisper.

"Alex Karev." Her eyes widen. "Wow."

"Right."

"Right. Wow," she repeats. "You, uh, you really have a type, huh?"

"A type?"

"Karev," she says, "Sloan." And she kind of squares her shoulders like she's trying not to burst out of a scrub top.

It's a remarkably perceptive impression.

"What about Derek?" I ask her mildly, since she seems to have some of psychic ability.

"Derek? Oh. …him." Callie looks distinctly unimpressed. "Well, he doesn't have the … stuff," she says, which I guess is Callie for _physique_ or maybe something more graphic, "but he walks around here like he does, you know? So there: same type."

Perceptive again.

"Are you _sure_ you only met him this year?"

Callie grins. "Shepherd? Yes. Guys like him, though? … they're everywhere."

Are they?

It's an interesting thought.

 _More than one Derek Shepherd._

Some buried part of me feels a flash of something at the thought.

Defensiveness? Protectiveness?

I mean, yeah, he's arrogant, but it's not like he doesn't have reason. It was different when we met, when we were kids – babies, even – but he distinguished himself quickly even then. It's what he does.

Callie is watching me when I look up from the rim of my mug.

(Mine is white and ceramic with SGH in blue. As in, the free mug I got when I signed my contract. Exactly the same as everyone else's mug. You see, my past walks around the hospital glaring at me; I don't need to look at it when I'm drinking my coffee too.)

"So, uh … how's everything going with … that?" Callie asks.

"That? You mean Derek?"

She nods.

I don't know how to answer.

 _A couple of hours ago we were sparring in Mark's hotel room, a couple of days ago he was tearing me apart in a supply closet, a couple of months ago we still wore "trying" like a badge, shared our bed, laughed a few times, had some pretty decent sex, and I actually …._

Well.

"It's … going," I say finally.

"That good, huh?"

"Pretty much." I take a sip of coffee.

"I know I don't have to ask about Sloan," she says, rolling her eyes, which makes me smile a little.

It's kind of nice to talk to someone who … knows him.

Hell, it's kind of nice to talk to _anyone_.

Derek and Mark don't count. I've been talking to them … _to_ them, _about_ them, _around_ them, _with_ them … for so many years now sometimes it just feels like screaming at my own reflection and wondering why it won't budge.

And I guess it's pretty clear that I don't have any friends here.

For a fleeting moment I thought Stevens and I might be friends, or at least _friends_ , you know, the way Vivian and I were friends after my fellowship.

But thanks to Richard – another _not exactly a friend_ – that never happened.

Which means that my two closest friends from New York are holed up in a hotel room right now, probably discussing what a bitch I am.

(Which wouldn't be that terrible, I suppose, still better than if they forgot about me completely – which, based on their apparent Hardy Boys reconciliation is the more likely scenario even if it's also the more upsetting one.)

God, I miss Savvy sometimes, but I can't exactly call her and unload. She has her own things to deal with. And she's still _SavvyAndWeiss_ , and I don't really know how to be just Addison with the two of them, instead of _AddisonAndDerek_

"I think Mark moved out here for Derek," I tell her. "You know, so they can be friends again."

"Really?" Callie looks doubtful. "Sold his practice, shipped across the country, just for his buddy?"

"His best … buddy," I correct her, tripping over a term a little too cute for how I'm feeling about those two right now.

"Well, that would be … kind of touching, in a weird way," Callie says tentatively. "I didn't really figure Sloan for the sentimental type."

I have the slightest flash of recollection – and then it's washed away with guilt – and it's not much, just pale eyes twinkling and then his hands that always looked comically oversized wrapped around the tiniest little blue and white –

"Addison?" Callie is looking at me. "You okay?"

 _I'm fine._

There's no other answer.

"Truthfully?" I ask, not really sure why.

She nods.

"Not really," I say, my voice shaking a little. "But, uh, don't quote me on it."

She gives me a sympathetic look. "That was a rough case."

I have to reorient myself before I respond. "Hannah … yeah." I shake my head, trying not to feel like a terrible person for basking in my own pain instead of my patient's.

"Do you, uh, do a lot of that procedure?"

"Terminations?"

We're talking around it again.

She nods.

I shrug.

"I'm a provider," I tell her. "The vast majority of terminations are in the first trimester. So obviously it's a very different procedure."

A _very different procedure._

A handful of pills, or a minute or two of whirring suction.

It's quick.

 _Don't try to get up yet. It's normal to be a little woozy. Just stay there._

All you need is a positive test.

 _Good air in, bad air out._

And a heartbeat.

 _Your friend? She's waiting for you. Dr. Shepherd – Addison – you really should take a minute. Let me get you some more water. Cindy? Cindy, can you bring Dr. Shepherd some more water? She's fine, she's just … she's fine. You're fine._

"Addison," and it must be the third time Callie's tried to get my attention – she's never going to want to have coffee with me again, she must think I'm crazy – but she just looks concerned.

Concerned – and kind of like she's staring up at me from underwater.

Just for a second, the lounge blurs.

Just for a second, I forget where I am.

"Addison. Have you slept at all?"

"I'm fine," I tell her quickly. "It's been a … long few days."

Few days?

More like few months.

Hell … few _years_ , but who's counting?

"Okay," she says, sounding a little uncertain. "And it was a rough case, I know. God, it's depressing around here sometimes, especially when –"

"I aborted Mark's baby."

 _Nice work, Addison, interrupt the only friend you've got right when she's starting to open up to you. It's always about you, isn't it?_

Callie's mouth is partially open.

She blinks a few times, processing.

"Okay, then," she says. "Floor's all yours. Go ahead."

I take a deep breath.

And hope this goes better than my last confession.

"It was, uh, right before I came out here," I start. "We were –"

Callie's pager goes off.

She groans, dropping her head into her hands. "Addison, I'm so sorry, I swear my interns have the worst timing ever." She pushes her chair back. "I'm sorry, really. I want to talk more. Let's – we'll find a time. You should get some sleep, though. You look wiped out."

She's standing now, surveying me, and looking vaguely concerned.

"Thanks," I say, trying to laugh it off.

"Seriously, I'm kind of worried about you."

I thank her and wish her luck with her patient, all the while focusing on stirring more milk into my coffee.

Milk in coffee is disgusting.

But more disgusting than that … is what it felt like to hear her say she was _kind of worried about_ me.

It went right through my stomach – which, I am realizing now, I haven't exactly been feeding, no wonder it feels queasy – and into my face, making my cheeks hot and threatening tears in my eyes.

They don't happen.

 _Thank god._

But the threat is there, and I'm grateful when she leaves so I can press my fingers to my temples and force them back.

I take a minute to collect myself – doesn't take long, plenty of practice there – before I head out.

And then I just stand in the hallway, contemplating what to do next.

I have a text from Karev: _she's not ready yet._

I know the feeling.

And I know he'll be there when she surrenders ... and I know I can barely keep my eyes open right now.

So what to do?

I mean.

What to do before I got back to the big empty room that's the closest thing to a home I have in Seattle.

 _I drove here,_ that's what I told Callie, and it's true, so I figure it shouldn't be too hard to _drive_ back. Sure, I'm so tired I can barely see straight, but I'm used to that too.

Being this tired is no guarantee of sleep; if anything, it counsels against it. But there will be a bottle of something in my hotel room, if the concierge is as good as his word.

So at least there's that.

I've gathered my things and I'm heading out, walking practically sideways

(for a different reason than the other time, thank god)

when I see the back of Derek's oh-so-familiar head. I can't see that much of him, he's blocked by the nurse's station, but the top of his white lab coat is clear.

It's definitely him.

I blink with surprise.

Derek's _here_?

He's – working?

I suppose he's had enough time to dry out by now.

I should go see him. I should update him on Hannah; he's technically still consulting on her team.

That's all it is, really. Okay?

No lingering recollection of how I'd seek him out in hospitals past after a hard case.

None at all.

Those days are over now.

(You reap what you sow, and I apparently sowed a hell of a lot of _fuck you._ )

My blackberry buzzes as I'm walking toward him, and I'm trying to read email at the same time. Derek always said that would get me trampled on the sidewalk or hit by a car crossing the street; he used to confiscate my blackberry when we walked to work together.

Kind of nice to remember that. These days I'd expect him just to step over me, maybe vaguely annoyed that my getting run down mid-email made him late to work.

(Well, that or shove me in front of the car himself.)

I'm still scrolling as I approach so I don't look up until I'm pretty much at his side.

"Derek – "

Oh.

 _Oh._

I didn't realize he was talking to Meredith Grey. I mean, she's so pocket-sized she was completely hidden from view.

 _Talking._

Talking?

In fact, his hand is lingering on the nurses' desk about two inches from her.

Hot color creeps around my cheeks to my neck and I can see Meredith looks about as embarrassed as I feel.

The only person who doesn't seem embarrassed is Derek. No, he seems … pleased with himself.

(Shocking.)

"Were you looking for me, Addison?" he asks coolly. He sounds almost bored.

 _Yeah, Derek, I was looking for you for a long freaking time and you were never there, so I gave up._

"Yes," I say as professionally as I can. "Just to, uh, to update you on the patient."

I hate it.

I hate feeling wrong-footed in front of him.

I feel awkward, fifteen again with braces and frizzy hair.

"That won't be necessary, Dr. Grey has already updated me."

He says her name so warmly.

 _Dr. Grey._

It makes me want to slap his face again.

I can't, so I turn to Grey.

"Oh, did you … Dr. Grey?"

"I – thought it would save you time – " Grey glances uncomfortably from Derek to me.

"That was very proactive of you," I tell her. "I like a self-starter."

She looks like she's not sure how to respond.

(And I realize this is lousy of me, okay? She hasn't done anything wrong, not really, she did a hell of a job with my patient, and she was actually willing to go to bat for Hannah when she thought it might mean a black mark on her chart. I _get_ that. I'm the bad guy here. I'm the bitch. I know that – it's just not enough to stop me. If I had any idea how to _stop me_ … well, my life might have turned out a little differently.)

"Grey?" I smile coldly at her knowing I'm making her uncomfortable and hating myself for it even as I need it, desperately, to try to get back on my feet.

But it's Derek who responds.

"Did you need something else, Addison?"

I actually flinch when he says this – imperceptibly, _god_ I hope it's imperceptible – like he's slapped me.

For a second his words hang in the air.

And then I just stare at him and try to keep my face steady, as if he's kidding.

As if he didn't just _dismiss_ me in front of the twelve-year-old he left me for.

My mouth starts to open but no words come out.

 _Fuck. I've had this nightmare before._

No, wait, not _this_ particular nightmare, I realize, as he stares first at my hand, and then at me.

This one … is worse. Dawning horror clouds my vision.

"Addison," he begins in a tone of neutral, faintly amused surprised.

 _Don't say it._

 _Please don't say it._

"You're wearing the rings?"

(He says it.)

* * *

 _To be continued. I would love to know what you think, so please review. Thank you so much!_


	15. told you

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter. I'm in a writing mood, but I never know which story is going to grab at my fingers, so I'm starting here.** **This one is long, and I hope you enjoy it. (Is _enjoy_ the right word for this story? Well, you know what I mean.) PS inspired by guest reviewer - I just want to say I know this story can be tough to read and that Addison's struggle is pretty brutal right now. Early Season 3 was so sad for Addison. But I promise there's light at the end of the tunnel for this story. Stick with her, and me, and we will get there.  
**

* * *

 _..  
told you  
.._

* * *

 _You're wearing the rings?_

His words hang in the air while I wait for the ground to open up and mercifully swallow me.

It doesn't. We all just stand there, because –

Oh my god.

Because he's actually _waiting_ for an answer.

His face is blank and unreadable ... and he's waiting.

Cold.

Emotionless.

Sometimes it seems like he doesn't care, and sometimes it seems like he wants to hurt me. The sick part of it is that I'd much prefer the latter.

Because it's better than nothing.

So what am I supposed to say to him now?

 _Remember when we'd have tough cases, and we'd support each other afterwards? Remember the guy who would buy me a dollar slice and tell me I'd be a great doctor? Remember leaving the hospital together here in Seattle after the train accident? Do you remember anything about me or did you throw every memory out with your ring?_

If I know one thing it's that I won't let him see how much he's hurt me.

I _can't_ let him see it. So I find my voice.

"If you'll excuse me," I say coolly, preparing to leave. I sound a little bit like my mother – cool as ice.

(She's actually useful sometimes.)

But then my fingers are in his; his touch is light – almost _playful,_ and somehow that hurts more.

I'm too tired to handle this right now.

The Derek I knew would know I was too tired. He would stop.

This one doesn't.

I have to tell him.

 _Stop_ , I say ... but not out loud.

I want to, but the words aren't coming. It feels like those dreams where you try to scream and nothing happens.

(A fair bit of my thirties have felt like that, actually. Especially the last few years.)

His voice is light, almost amused: "They're not stuck again, are they?"

Something is stuck.

Words. They're stuck in my throat.

I don't answer.

"Apparently not. Nice … and easy," he says, and before I really figure out what he's doing, he's pulling the rings off my finger and dropping them into his open palm.

And then I don't know if he sees my face or he realizes Meredith is still standing here watching us but something flickers in his eyes and then he looks at the rings in his palm.

I can hear every unfortunate breath sound in the hallway right now, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.

Maybe I'll get lucky and have a stroke before I have to speak.

"Addison …"

I don't answer.

"I'm going to go," Grey interjects.

"You don't need to do that," Derek says hastily.

"No, you two should … talk."

 _You two?_ Didn't she get the memo? There is no _us two._

"You stay, I'll go," I tell her, but it's too late, she's already gone.

Derek turns to me. "Satisfied?"

His eyes are cold again.

"More like disappointed," I retort.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not disappointed in _you_ , I'm disappointed in her. Grey. I thought she had better taste."

"Oh, that's rich. You're one to talk about taste when you're screwing an adulterous sociopath."

" _Was_ screwing," I correct him with as much dignity as I can. "Not anymore."

"Did you take a vow? You have an excellent record of keeping those."

For a minute we both just breathe. We used to take these pauses in our fights sometimes and kind of gather strength before we went at it again.

(Both kinds of _went at it_ , yes. We'd usually go a few rounds of fighting before the makeup sex, but it happened.)

I'm the first one to speak.

"I don't want to fight with you." I hate how pathetically small my voice sounds right now.

"Then leave," Derek says simply. "Go back to New York where you belong so I don't have to see you anymore."

I don't respond.

I _wish_ I still belonged in New York.

"And stay away from Meredith," he adds.

"Excuse me? She's an _intern_ , Derek, not your plaything."

"I know that," he scowls.

"Good. So you know she's here to learn how to be a surgeon, not how to find your erogenous zones, and you don't have a claim on her _professional_ time."

"You don't have any – "

He stops mid-sentence, his breathing a little elevated like exerted himself. "What did you want, anyway?" His tone is irritable.

 _Now_ he asks.

"To update you on the patient."

"No, you didn't."

The nerve.

"Derek..."

"Addison," he replies in my own inflection, infuriatingly.

"Just forget it."

He heaves an exaggerated breath now. "You are _so_ passive-aggressive. You know, I thought divorcing you might help with that, but apparently not."

"At least it helped cheer you up," I remind him acidly.

He actually looks the slightest bit embarrassed. And then he looks down at his hand where I guess my rings are still burning a hole.

"Here," he says awkwardly, but I take a step back so he can't return the rings.

Of course he wants to return any reminder of the marriage he tried to forget.

"Keep them," I tell him.

He exhales with annoyance. "Stop being petty."

 _You stop being a dick._

He attempts to return them again and this time I close my fist.

"Addison," he says impatiently.

"Keep them," I repeat. "Give them to Meredith, melt them into a fishing rod, throw them off the damn ferry, do whatever the hell you want."

 _You always do._

He shakes his head. "Addison, would you just take the damn rings?"

I study his face for a moment before I respond. I want to see if its contours are recognizable, if the shape of it has actually changed.

One last chance to see if I know him.

"I'm going to say what I should have said twelve years ago," I tell him politely, staring down at the rings. "No, thank you."

When I glance up, he actually looks _hurt_ for a second.

Maybe he's so used to acting like he regrets our marriage that he's forgotten how painful that thought is.

 _You wasted my time._

And anyway, it's all a lie. He knows perfectly well that I don't regret it. He knows I'm the only one of us who was fighting for it. Not just in Seattle – in New York, too, before I finally gave up.

"Just forget it." He pockets the rings. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Well. That whole civil-and-mature thing didn't last very long. I'm shocked." I lean my weight to one side, enjoying feeling like I have the power for about three seconds. I'm willing to anger him if it means I stop getting hurt.

(The problem is, though … it seems like I never do.)

He looks at me. I wonder if he's doing what I did, moments ago – trying to see if he can recognize the person he used to know.

"You look like hell," he says.

… or not.

"Thanks," I respond sarcastically and I have to swallow, literallyswallow, on the word _honey_ that almost pours out of my mouth next. Habit, just habit.

But why do habits have to be so fucking hard to break?

"Have you slept at all?" he asks. "Other than with Mark, I mean."

Ah, so we're back to this. Pretending he's concerned about me so he doesn't have to examine his role in anything. Last time he tried a welfare check, we ended up screaming at each other in Richard's office while my patient got stuck waiting for me deliver the tragedy she was growing inside her.

"Thank you for your concern," I tell him coolly, leaning just enough on the word _concern_ that a passerby wouldn't know I'm being sarcastic, but a husband would.

Or an ex-husband, whatever.

"… but as I recall, the last time you were concerned, _you_ were the one who ended up falling-down drunk and incoherent at Joe's."

"I wasn't incoherent." He frowns.

I notice he doesn't deny the rest of it.

"You were incoherent enough to let Mark take you home," I remind him.

He snorts faintly. "You would know all about that, wouldn't you."

"He's trying to make it up to you," I tell him suddenly, not really sure why I'm defending Mark when I'm pretty damn sure neither one of them would defend me. "He's here in this miserable city playing nice trying to be your friend again, and you don't even care."

"Mark … is not my friend," he says.

"Then he did a pretty good job pretending last night when he was taking care of you."

"Maybe he did." Derek pauses. "He's good at pretending, isn't he? Mark. And you, too."

 _What about you? You pretended to try for six months – but then again, nothing is ever your fault._

I don't really have anything to say to that. Not out loud, anyway.

I just let my eyes drop and I see the faint outline of my rings in the pocket of his lab coat and for some reason that – more than anything else, more than the way he looked at me when I got to Seattle, more than watching him moon over Grey right in front of me and then deny it, and even more than those tiny fucking panties – makes me realize that it's over.

I know that must sound crazy. I mean, I spent a whole morning signing papers to make it _over_ , I had to do all the official whatever to get my name changed back, and we filed. It's legal. We are as divorced as two people can be, but somehow I guess I didn't quite realize it until now.

At the same time, I realize that I need to leave. I need it badly.

This much … I know.

And then I almost laugh, a dark little inside joke with myself, at how to say goodbye. _See you tomorrow?_ To the guy who said he never wanted to see me again – _again_ , in this very conversation, even? _Good night?_ I'm gearing up for a lousy night. Derek still manages to look cool as a cucumber.

If it takes energy for him to do this to me, you'd never know it.

(I'm not saying I've never tried to hurt him. I just think that, for me, it takes more work. That's all.)

I have limited time before _he_ leaves and I need for some reason to be the one who leaves first so I mutter something about checking on my patient.

I don't glance over my shoulder until I reach the elevators and then I can only make out half of him; he's looking away with his hands in his pockets. He doesn't see me.

(No surprise there.)

..

Karev is standing just outside the elevators, which is convenient, leaning against the wall studying something in his hands.

"I was looking for you," I tell him.

"Yeah?" He closes the chart he was holding. "Actually, I was looking for you, too."

There's a brief and rather embarrassing moment when I'm fearing – and shamefully maybe hoping a little – that he's going to propose we find another viewing room and try again, but thankfully he speaks before I can.

"Hannah surrendered," he says.

I blink. "You didn't page me."

"It was fast. I went in to check on her and she'd already called Nurse Taylor. The social worker was there too."

"Judy? I asked for Judy."

Karev nods. "She stayed late for it."

"Good." I make note of that so I can say something to her supervisor.

"Tad is still there, too." Karev says, sounding mildly impressed. "I told them probably just one more night admitted, that you'd check on her tomorrow."

"Good." I nod. "Well. Thank you for handling that, Dr. Karev." I pause for a moment, trying to remember whether he's left the hospital at all. He was on call – or no, he _wasn't_ on call, but he stayed anyway. "You should get some sleep," I add.

"Yeah. I caught an hour before, but … ." He pauses. "I thought I'd sleep here just in case, you know, anything goes wrong with Hannah."

I school my facial expression into neutral. Thankfully, I've had a lot of practice. "Hannah is in good hands, Karev. Dr. Goldberg will be here all night."

She's a fellow in MFM I'm not too keen on, but that might be because I've caught Mark checking her out a few times, and she didn't seem uninterested.

(I may be swearing off him, but that doesn't mean I like when other women move in for the kill. Is it logical? No, but that's not the point.)

"I know," Karev says. "Just in case, though."

"All right. Please keep me posted."

He nods. "Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes."

His eyes crinkle a little. "You should get some sleep, too. You look wiped out."

I blink, a little surprised and more than a little annoyed, and am just about to give it to him for speaking to me like we're equals when a breathless voice interrupts from behind me.

"Dr. Shepherd?"

I turn around, of course, even if it's not my name anymore. It's not like eleven years of conditioning disappears overnight. You only need a few codes called – _Dr. Shepherd, we need you!_ – with a life hanging in the balance before you learn to respond, and fast.

It's an intern whose name I don't remember. I don't bother looking at her nametag or correcting her on my surname, just nod impatiently and wait for her to tell me what she wants.

"The other Dr. Shepherd is looking for you," she says.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Karev react – just in the set of his shoulders, maybe, but there's tension there.

"Is there an emergency?" I ask.

The intern blinks, not particularly quick on the uptake apparently. "W-what?" she stammers. "I mean, excuse me?"

"Is there a _medical_ emergency," I repeat slowly, "for which Dr. Shepherd needs my assistance?"

"Oh! No, I don't think so." Her brow wrinkles. I notice that she has a tiny gold hoop halfway up her ear. What Richard would have said about that in 1992 … well. I guess he's changed if the interns are this comfortable.

Nice to know someone has.

"Right." I nod briskly. "Well, I'm on my way out for the night." I glance at her nametag. "…Dr. Laghari. I am, of course, reachable in case of patient emergency."

She just blinks again, looking confused. "Okay…"

"Good night, doctors," I tell them both, and this time nothing stops me on my way out of the hospital.

...

I remember it when I turn over the ignition.

(Like it was yesterday, and not a lifetime ago.)

When we were interns, my cohort spent a training day on these machines that simulated driving under the influence. They were big, I remember this, the kind of machine you sat in. Not like the video games now that fit into one hand. This was the early 90s and it seemed very high tech at the time. We'd move a little plastic steering wheel like a kid in the back seat of a car and try to drive steadily on the road that unfolded on a screen in front of us.

All the while, a little ticker would tell us how much alcohol we'd consumed, and a little test-tube shaped graphic would track our virtual blood alcohol content.

We took turns on the machine. It should have been obvious the first time the effect – Derek was first, of course – when the ticker moved up and the BAC level changed and despite his look of concentration he still drove off the cartoon road.

But they still made all of us try it. I guess it's different when it's _you_. Lori tried it next, then Troy, then Manish, and finally it was my turn.

And what do you know, it really did feel different to be the one in the hard plastic seat trying to control the wheel.

(I drink. Sometimes a lot, not always responsibly, but I want to be clear that I would never drive drunk. I was raised … well, "raised" … by functional alcoholics. The kind with chauffeurs. And while sometimes a fiery crash doesn't seem like the worst way to go, I wouldn't want to take anyone with me.)

Why am I telling you this?

Because that was twelve … thirteen? Years ago. And ever since then, study after study. Putting on makeup is as bad as drinking.

(Putting on makeup in a moving car is also bad aesthetically, but I recognize that's a different issue.)

Eating is as bad as drinking, behind the wheel. These days? Cell phones, even if you put them on speaker, are just as bad.

And every damn trucker study out there confirms that exhaustion is a killer.

I know this, I've studied this, I've seen it in action … and I've seen the tragic consequences.

But what am I supposed to do? I'm chronically exhausted and I don't exactly have anyone to call for a ride.

Anyway, I'm not going far. Just to the hotel, which is like a four-minute drive. Tops.

Well … maybe one detour first.

…

They greet me by name at the liquor store, which is probably a bad sign.

(I'll have to bring it up in the therapy I don't go to.)

Frankly, it's kind of nice to hear my name … or some approximation of it.

Isn't there some study on _that_ , too? That hearing our own names makes us feel less alone?

God, humans are stupid sometimes.

(I'm not excluding myself, just to be clear. Not even close.)

I _am_ alone, of course. I get frequent reminders, not that I've forgotten. The hospital is behind me now. In that big blinking building where … I was also alone.

But I'm here for a purpose.

I'm here to buy gin.

I have champagne back in the room, but I'm not in the mood. Normally I enjoy the irony of drinking something that's supposed to be festive all by myself.

(It's either irony or the memory of sloughing off a few of the bottles on ice when my parents entertained – which was often – so my brother and I could have our own party upstairs. They either didn't notice or didn't care.)

 _Notice._

I'm stuck here in Seattle and I don't think anyone would notice if I left.

 _Derek wouldn't notice if I dyed my hair,_ I complained this once to Savvy, and it seems so petty and frothy now, looking back. We were probably drinking and I was feeling sorry for myself, because Weiss never forgot birthdays or anniversaries, the man was an elephant, he remembered _everything._

(When I did dye my hair, it looked awful, and Derek wasn't even there. Mark noticed. He laughed at me until I closed the door in his face, and then he rang the bell and told me to go to the salon, _go directly to the salon, do not pass Go, do not collect $200_ , if I ever wanted to see him naked again. I did it, not because of the threat – though admittedly that was incentivizing – but because I had already ruined my life. Why be unattractive on top of that?)

"How are you tonight, ma'am?"

 _Pretty damn shitty. And being called "ma'am" doesn't help._

"Fine, thank you."

Imagine telling someone how lousy you actually feel. Do people do that? I didn't spend eight years in etiquette classes to be _honest_.

The man behind the counter is friendly but not quite obsequious, so I fake just enough friendliness that I won't be called a bitch when I leave. Just long enough to pay for the familiar blue bottle. It feels comforting in my hands for a moment and then it's in a paper bag and I'm back in the car.

I take it out of the bag and rest it on the seat next to me. I actually stroke the outside of the bottle for a moment – the cool glass feels so nice against my fingers. I've certainly had better gin and can easily afford better gin … but tonight, this is what I want.

My brother started drinking Bombay Sapphire the year I was legal to drink – a formality, obviously, but still a banner year. It was cool, and Archer was cool, and I wanted to be so I copied him like I did in a whole bunch of ways: playing tricks on the nannies we didn't like, talking back to Bizzy under our breaths so only we could hear, casual sex, applying to medical school – I guess that's about it.

(I never joined his brief coke phase even when it was everywhere in the eighties, at the insufferable parties I'd trail him to where his boarding school friends-turned-bond-traders made me want to give up men altogether. Drugs probably would have made them less insufferable, but I stayed away – my mother once casually said cocaine made women's noses cave, and appealing to my vanity is rarely ineffective.)

I debate belting in the bottle of gin and then decide it's a bad idea; doesn't look good for my sanity just in case I get pulled over.

When I pull out into the dark glittery night, I'm so tired the road practically blurs in front of me.

It's video game day all over again, and I'm getting that little frisson of pride I felt when that sexist prick Troy said _how's this supposed to work when they're lousy drivers anyway_ , jerking his thumbs toward Lori and me,and Derek told him to shut up. We could stand up for ourselves and had to with unfortunate frequency, but in that moment when he said that _my guy is one of the good guys,_ and the twenty-five-year-old version of me couldn't help but beam.

What an idiot she was. Naïve. A romantic. I look at my interns now and I can't imagine being that young. Much less being that young and making a decision for the rest of your life. I was still wearing bangs that year that made me look like a drag Beatle, and I was somehow equipped to decide to share my life with the same man forever?

Wait, let me say something.

I don't die.

Not tonight, anyway.

I'm saying this now because I feel like I'm leading you astray with all this talk of drunk driving and fiery crashes and how I can barely keep my eyes open. It's all true, don't get me wrong, but I still make it back to the hotel in one piece and hand my keys to the valet with relief.

What's that Bizzy's housekeeper used to say? _God watches out for drunks and little children._ I remember her repeating it when Archie fell off the top of the gazebo.

(I don't believe in god, but even if I'm not particularly fond of my life I suppose I'm glad I didn't lose it on the road tonight.)

The Archfield lobby is blank and anonymous, a clean slate. People come here to disappear. I've never needed much help with that … but here I am.

What's that Derek said, tonight? _Go back to New York where you belong._

He _still_ doesn't get it.

I don't belong anywhere.

Except maybe this elevator, walnut panels and gold trim and the kind of lighting that hides the toll of the last few days.

Because there is a toll.

Hannah made it. I'm relieved, _god_ I'm relieved, but it doesn't mean I made it.

Or that I will.

See, I can almost always make it through.

 _Through_. As in during.

After, though?

 _After_ is a different story.

After is the story I told you about Brenda, about Vivian Carlsmith and the version of me only she and Derek saw.

But I can't think about that right now. Not about any of it.

Thinking about that is pain.

Pain is the one thing even I can't afford. I can't let it out; it's too big for my tiny little wood paneled world, for these carpeted hallways that drown out the footsteps of other people to make sure I feel alone.

Pain won't work. Not tonight.

The problem is, I only know two ways to numb the pain, and they go pretty well together.

One of them is in my hand right now, filling up a blue glass bottle calling to be opened. The other?

Wait. Those of you who still believe in me, even after Mark the first time, the second, the third, after I lied to Derek to get him to take me back, even after Karev … I admire that, I really do.

So just do me a favor and skip over this next part, okay? I already know how it's going to make me look. And considering what you've heard so far, the fact that I think this pushes what's left of my integrity over the edge should be enough to warn you off.

Still here?

So am I, unfortunately, bottle of gin in one hand, other fist poised to knock on the door of the only other thing I can think of to numb the pain.

 _Ugh_.

(I told you.)

* * *

 _to be continued. Please review - I love hearing what you think and it inspires me to keep the fingers moving. Thank you!_


	16. surprise

**A/N: I can't believe it's been a month since I updated. I am way behind on all my stories, but I am about to make some progress. Here's a big long chapter. The good news, if you like this story, is that we're heading into the territory where the most meat is already sitting on my hard drive, so you can expect the next chapters to be faster. I am so grateful to anyone who's still reading; this piece is exhausting but I really enjoy writing it and I really want to tell the rest of the story. So I hope you'll keep reading.**

* * *

..  
 _surprise  
.._

* * *

It takes Mark a little while to answer when I knock – there's probably a pay-per-view related reason for that.

When he finally opens the door, there's a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair is still damp and standing up a bit at the back, and there's a recognizable glint in his eyes.

I know that look well, and I'm not exactly surprised.

Actually … wait.

Let me pause here for a moment.

And I'm not going to be defensive. Okay, I'm going to be a little defensive, because I get it. I _get_ that it doesn't make sense. I mean, my patient is okay. It's over, it went as well as it could have, and she's okay.

So why am I … not?

Because here's the thing they don't tell you. Making it through a crisis is just half the battle. It's the _after_ that gets you. Sometimes it gets you more than the _during_. Something like – supposedly I get too attached. Maybe some people don't get attached enough? Maybe those people are supposed to find each other – balance each other out.

(I wouldn't know – I've succeeded in driving away anyone remotely interested in balancing me out.)

My patient _is_ okay. She's okay.

But maybe there's only a certain amount of _okay_ I can manage, and when I'm done pouring it into a patient there's not enough left for me. Maybe now that the patient is okay … I don't have to be anymore.

I don't know, not really.

Maybe I just need a place to put all that adrenaline. Maybe I just need a place to put _me_ and it shouldn't be in this strange lonely city where the only people who knew me before my very public divorce are three people who've seen my unfortunate underbelly?

(Different parts of it, maybe, at different times, but all three of those men have had a glimpse.)

What my body is craving is touch, and it's not that picky about how to get there.

I've never known how to get there without sex, certainly not since … well, not for a long time.

And yes, I know, it's _so_ unique to use sex to get someone to hold me. I'm a snowflake, truly. Just file it under D for _Daddy Issues_ , which conveniently is also the letter location of _Derek Issues_ and _Divorce Issues._

(There's nowhere on the D- list for Mark, specifically, although I'm pretty sure if he knew the breakdown he'd suggest some fairly vulgar way to shoehorn himself in there.)

Mark.

Right … back to Mark.

He's smirking, and the towel is low enough on his hips to dry my mouth and make me hate myself just a little bit more.

"Well, if it isn't the Virgin Mary. Did you come to lecture me on the evils of sex?"

He leans just enough on the word _come_ to annoy me, but I'm not exactly surprised.

"Actually … I came to offer you a drink."

"Bombay Sapphire, huh?" he nods toward the bottle in my arms. "That kind of night?"

I nod.

"So we can drink, but we can't have sex," he confirms, drawing out the words a bit.

"Right," I say. But my voice goes up at the end the way I scold my residents for doing, and when he looks amused I wish I could take it back.

I'm trying to figure out the triangulation of preserving what's left of my dignity, drinking what's left of the gin, and getting what's left of Mark to drive the pain of me so I don't answer, not yet –

And that's when I hear rustling behind him, the bathroom door opens in a cloud of steam, and Mark almost – _almost_ – looks sorry.

There's a woman in the white hotel-issued bathrobe – it's huge on her, the dainty bitch, and long blonde hair piled on her head, eyes wide with surprise.

And I know her.

 _Fuck._

"Dr. Shepherd!" she squeals.

All in all, it seems like the wrong time to correct her on my surname.

"Nurse Graham," I greet her politely.

"I have, um, I should go. My shift." She looks uncertainly between us, blushing. "I'll just, uh …"

And she ducks back into the room, grabbing handfuls of what I don't have to see her to know are discarded clothes.

I don't leave – why should I make this more comfortable for either of them? I stand in the open doorway, tapping the pointed toe of my shoe occasionally, waiting.

She dresses with record speed – another time, if she hadn't just fucked whatever-Mark-is-to-me, we could have joked about it, about being Women in the Medical Field who get used to slap-dash dressing in co-ed locker rooms. We could have … bonded.

That's not going to happen now, and she's smart enough to get that, because she avoids my eyes and there's a steady blush creeping down her neck.

Or maybe it's a giant hickey. Slut.

(Sorry. I know how terrible that sounds. That's why the worst of me is rarely out loud.)

Mark raises an eyebrow at me when I don't move from the doorway and Nurse Graham – Jessi, that's her first name, and she's barely out of the stage where she must have dotted the i with a fucking heart – has to sidle past me to get out of the room.

"Drive safe," Mark tells her. "I'll call you!" he adds to her back as she walks down the hall at a clip, bag slung over her shoulder.

I turn my head just enough to watch her walk away, then turn back to Mark.

"Do you think they believe that? When you say you're going to call them, I mean?"

Mark shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"You're a pig," I inform him.

"Here we go." He rolls his eyes. "Are you coming in or not?"

I stare at him.

"You said something about a drink," he reminds me neutrally.

Ugh.

"Is she a natural blonde?" I ask, still from the doorway.

"Come in and ask me that," he says, opening the door a little wider, and I take him up on it this time.

(I may be living a life that would make my mother die of shame, but I'm still not quite ready to conduct _all_ my business in hotel hallways. A lady wouldn't. A lady doesn't raise her voice, bring bottles of gin to men's rooms, or screw their husband's best friends, for that matter.)

"Well?" I prop a hand on my hip. "Is she?"

"A natural blonde? Actually … yes. I know," he adds when he sees my expression, "I was surprised too. And let me tell you, it wasn't easy to find out … there wasn't much evidence."

I make a face at him as I open the bottle of gin. It's a point of contention between us, is the thing.

But one of the few nice parts about being my age – along with the clothes, and the sex, and the ability to torment interns who piss you off – is that the _guys_ my age are my age too.

By which I mean they grew up looking at a very different kind of girl in their father's squirreled-away magazines.

Hell, they grew up looking at magazines, _period._ The current crop of interns is so young I have no idea where they set their standards. But I can tell you that the women posing for centerfolds in the seventies, the centerfolds _guys my age_ were sharing in gym locker rooms and on lacrosse fields, were … natural, and I don't mean hippies.

That does something to a person. Show a kid his first naked woman and it actually does something to his brain – Derek agrees with this, and he's a neurosurgeon, so there you go.

"You know, you might have to modernize yourself if you're going back on the market," Mark says, raising an eyebrow.

"I haven't heard any complaints," I tell him primly.

Not that anyone but Mark has seen it, but … that's not the point.

"I have no complaints," he assures me, "believe me, other than the fact that it's on lockdown."

" _Was_ on lockdown," I say after a moment, and the light in his eyes changes.

"Seriously?" he asks.

I actually wonder what he'd say if I tell him no … I don't want to have sex at all. That I just don't want to feel alone.

He wouldn't laugh. I don't think so, anyway. Mark may have a screwed-up moral compass – not that I'm in any position to judge – but he's not a bad person.

He might even be nice about it.

… he'd probably still try to have sex with me, though.

And he'd probably succeed.

"Seriously," I tell him and that slow wolfish grin of his starts working and makes my stomach drop to my toes.

And then I stop, I actually stop, because _god_ , what am I doing?

Am I really that desperate that I'm willing to sleep with someone who just finished fucking someone else?

I was married for eleven years. Fifteen years of sex with the same person. When did I become _this_ person?

"Forget it," I say quickly. "I'm going."

"Addison, wait – "

I don't. I grab my gin and what's left of my dignity and pull the door closed behind me. My heart patters all the way down the hall to my room and as I slide my key card into the slot I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed that he didn't follow me.

..

I'm neither, I decide a little while later, once I've shed my jacket and my shoes and any sense of concern for etiquette (I'm drinking straight from the bottle).

I'm unsurprised, is what I am.

Yeah, Mark likes to stalk prey, but he doesn't exactly go out of his way effort-wise. He's more like a lazy cat, or those male lions you see on the Nature Channel who kind of preen their manes and wait for someone else to bring down a wildebeest.

And I'm alone again, and I'm not surprised by that, either.

The gin tastes good – hard and tingling on my lips, and I turn on just enough light that no one could accuse me of sitting in the dark.

(It's dim, to be clear, but I try to avoid the most depressive clichés when I can.)

I drink until my wrist turns clumsy and the bottle hits my teeth and wait, alone, for it to numb the pain.

It's not working, not fast enough, and I'm regretting walking away before letting Mark try to make me forget. But I wasn't drunk enough not to be disgusted that there's only one bed in his room and it had clearly been used and even if _Jessi_ is barely out of her teens, I'm a long way from twenty-two.

 _Twenty-two._

They knew me when I was twenty-two, both of them. And they were too. And we were young and stupid and idealistic and part of me wishes I could go back and grab that _girl_ by the shoulders, with her hopeful smile and puppy fat on her cheeks, and shake her. _You have no idea what's coming, Addie. No idea._ That's what I'd tell her.

She wouldn't believe me. Not that girl; her whole life was in front of her.

There's a knock on the door.

I know it's Mark before I open it, and I'm right.

See, people you know like we know each other – they can't surprise you.

They can hurt you, they can disappoint you … but they can't surprise you. Maybe that's a good thing – at least you know what you're dealing with.

Mark's dressed, at least, even if it's in sweatpants and an ancient-looking Columbia tee like he's trying to emphasize how fucking old we are now.

"I guess you started the party without me," he says, mildly, nodding toward the bottle of gin.

I glance at it. It's kind of blurry, and I _feel_ kind of blurry. There's more missing from the bottle than I realized.

"You didn't even change," Mark adds, sounding almost impressed. _You started drinking right away. You're that fucked up._

"You don't like my outfit?" I raise an eyebrow at him, or try to, and use my free hand to smooth my skirt over my hips.

Not that it's wrinkled. I don't _wrinkle._

Also, I might be a little more … tipsy than I thought.

"Your outfit is fine. Your tolerance, on the other hand, might have taken a hit."

"It hasn't. Trust me." I move closer to him, trying to be slow and deliberate so I seem less drunk.

(My _tolerance_ is one hundred percent Montgomery guaranteed … to pickle your liver and complicate your life. A _hit_ , indeed. Hardly.)

"There's still time for you to catch up," I suggest, raising an eyebrow meaningfully. "… if you think you can keep up with me, that is."

He frowns. "Don't do the desperate thing. It doesn't suit you."

"No?"

"I'm the desperate one, remember?" He props his hips against the wall and studies the carpet.

"What about me?" I challenge him. "Which one am I?"

Truthfully … I'm curious what he'll say.

The needy one?

The stupid one?

The easy one?

(Okay, fine, we're both the easy one.)

He looks up and his face actually softens a little. "You're Addison," he says, and when he grins at me and I can almost remember being young.

It feels good.

But just for a moment. The good feelings never seem to last more than a moment – a drink – an orgasm or three. The bad feelings, though? Somehow, they manage to linger.

So I need more. More gin, more Mark, more anything that will numb the pain.

"How drunk are you?" he asks. He actually sounds a little uncertain.

(Can you believe it? Mark Sloan. _Uncertain_.)

How drunk am I?

How do I answer that question?

 _Drunk enough to make the same mistake over and over again._

 _Drunk enough to think this time it might be different._

 _Drunk enough not to care that it won't be._

 _Drunk enough that nothing can surprise me._

" … drunk," I tell him, and twine my wrists around his neck. "Come on, Mark, you've been trying to get me back in bed. I'm here, I'm saying yes, what's the problem?"

"The problem is that you just want to use me to feel better about your lousy day."

The record scratches to silent.

Excuse me?

(First of all, _lousy day_ is quite an understatement.)

But really, did I fall through the looking glass?

Since when is that a reason for Mark _not_ to want to have sex with me? Since when have we done anything _but_ used each other when we needed something stronger than alcohol?

"So?" My voice is a little too wobbly to be a purr, but I try my best. "Why is that an issue?"

He looks a little uncomfortable, his face tight, but his hands are traveling up and down my sides. They're big and warm through the silky fabric and I want to feel them everywhere because when he touches me I can almost forget how empty I am.

Which is … pretty fucking empty.

All the goddamn time.

I tilt my head back a little to see him – he's blurred around the edges, but he's _here,_ big and real, and my hands drift to the waistband of his sweats.

"Hey," he frowns, pushing my hands down.

"You seriously don't want to have sex with me," I challenge him, propping a hand on my hip. A piece of hair falls in front of my face and I blow it out of the way, a gesture Mark used to say he thought was cute. Now he looks almost disgusted.

Great. So no one can stand the sight of me. Karev. Derek. Even Mark.

I'm zero for three tonight. And with _Mark,_ who's the walking embodiment of an easy win.

"You should … drink some water," he says.

"Thanks, Dr. Sloan." I glare at him.

"And eat something, will you?" Mark points to the phone. "Order some dinner."

It's late – it's ridiculously late – but I probably should order some dinner, come to think of it. I call down to the concierge and when he says _the usual?_ I'm grateful Mark can't hear the other end of the line.

He looks satisfied. "So eat," he says like he's planning out what's left of my night. "And then sleep it off. You're going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning."

"Stay?" I'm going for coy with the one-word answer thing but it's not really working because my ankles feel wobbly.

"You want me to?" he asks.

I can't answer.

He studies me for a moment and I can't help wondering what he sees.

"Sleep it off, Addison," he repeats after a moment, and he turns like he's going to leave.

"Wait, Mark!"

(Pathetic. Right? If you could see the size of the gin bottle I'm trying to kill, or the size of the hole in my heart I haven't figured out how to hide … you'd sympathize. Maybe. Or you'd just judge the hell out of me like everyone at the hospital where I still have the misfortune to work.)

He pauses.

I don't even _know_ what I want him to do! I just know that he took care of Derek after Joe's, didn't he? And I know that I'm the one who told him to do that. And I know I'm confused, that's what I am, and that I still can't untangle all three of us and I guess he's thinking the same thing based on what he says next.

"You know, I didn't move to Seattle to pick up after drunk Derek and Addison."

"We're not Derek and Addison anymore," I remind him.

"Well, maybe you should work on the _not being drunk anymore_ part, then."

"Why _did_ you move to Seattle?" I ask.

Mark blinks. He actually looks sort of surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, did you come to Seattle for Derek, or for me?" I keep talking so he can't. "You said you were here for me. The first time. And the second time, the … booty call time. But I told you we were just coworkers and then you told me to be honest with Derek and then ... and you've been trying to get back in his good graces."

He doesn't deny any of it, just waits for me to finish.

 _Be honest with Derek._ He guilted me into it, he _knows_ it works with me, and telling Derek what I kept from him through our whole disastrous non-reconciliation is what started all of this, wasn't it?

"Well?" I prop a hand on the hip of my skirt, which is starting to feel uncomfortably tight. "Which is it, Mark? Did you come to Seattle for Derek, or for me? You have to choose."

"Why?" he asks, looking right at me. " _You_ couldn't."

I swallow hard.

"Addison … you're drunk." His tone is cajoling. "Look, I know you and Derek are competing for most functional alcoholic but neither one of you is winning, so maybe consider calling a truce?"

A truce? Derek and I don't do truces. The most we'll do is détente.

I don't want to think about him, though, or about the way my rings sat in his palm or the way the walls of that supply closet closed in on me when he sliced through whatever was left of my dignity.

The thought makes my stomach feel hollow, gin sloshing around inside.

So much for seduction. I think I'm fluttering my eyelashes, but it's hard to tell. I might just be falling asleep on my fucking feet. I decide to take my skirt off – double benefit, even my drunk self realizes that, because it's not very comfortable and because maybe it will change Mark's mind.

"I can't get my … zipper thing," I admit after a few tries.

He looks exasperated but he turns me around, and then I turn _him_ because it's on the side, and we almost laugh for a minute. He gets the zipper in one – of course he does, and I push the skirt down over my hips. I don't even care how I look anymore.

"What are you so upset about anyway? I thought you did the … thing."

"I did do the thing."

"Then why are you so upset?"

"I'm not," I lie, mouthing cold glass for another long sip. "Here – are you having some or not?"

Mark examines the bottle. "How about you take it easy on this stuff?"

I frown. "Fine, don't have some." I take another long sip. I'm starting to feel a little bit better but I need something else, something more, so I can stop remembering.

"Addison…"

"What?"

"… nothing." He shakes his head. "You want to come up for air?"

"Not particularly, no."

There's a knock on the door then – the room service I didn't even want. Mark looks relieved.

"You want me to – "

"No, I've got it."

"Addison – _Addison_ ," he hisses, gesturing at me and I realize I'm wearing nothing but my blouse and panties.

Okay, he has a point. I make a grab for the boxers I've been sleeping in and drag them over my hips. Mark watches me pull them on – of course he does; what was I just saying about knowing exactly what to expect, about no surprises when it comes to the men in my life? – and then I pull open the door.

"I'm not hungry," I remind Mark once the tray is sitting on the low-slung coffee table.

The smell of the food is nauseating me, to be honest. Nothing smells good right now, not even the gin I'm still drinking straight from the bottle.

Mark takes the bottle out of my hand and sets it on the table. "Take a break, Addison."

I pick it up for another swig, and he doesn't stop me this time.

He just opens the top of the silver dome and sniffs. "The chicken thing? Not their best."

"It's _heirloom_ chicken, thank you very much," I correct him, washing the word down with another long swallow of gin.

(Only the best for us hotel-dwellers, right?)

"Well, the filet is better," he shrugs.

"Not when it's clogging your arteries."

He smirks. "You act like I haven't seen you go to town on a burger."

Yeah, sometimes I forget how well he knows me. If he hadn't been in the room, I probably would have ordered a bacon cheeseburger. I'm not saying I would have eaten it, but that's not the point.

Still, I can't make myself interested in chicken, heirloom or not, and it's making me feel a little queasy. "Help yourself," I tell him.

He doesn't. Maybe he already ate dinner with his _date_. I glare at him and he shakes his head, hands spread as if to say _I didn't do anything._ If ever there were a Mark Sloan characteristic pose – not counting anything X-rated, I mean – that would be it.

Mark never thinks he's done anything.

He's the most innocent wreaker of havoc I've ever met.

"Eat," he says. "It's actually pretty good."

He's actually making some headway on the chicken; I stand there feeling foolish for a few minutes, then manage a couple of bites of warm bread before pushing it away.

I fiddle with the buttons on my blouse; I want to take it off, put on something comfortable, but for some reason the mechanics of it are challenge. I unlatch some of the easier buttons and then have to take a break.

And then there's another knock on the door.

Mark shrugs when I glance at him. Then I realize it's room service again, come back to pick up the tray. They know me now; I've told them exactly when to come back for it. I told them what I needed and they listened. Why can't everything be that easy?

I try to look as dignified as possible in a half-buttoned blouse and plaid boxers – not that it matters; people like the polite, uniformed busboy are paid to be discreet. I know that well, I grew up with it, and I depend on it.

(It's the people I don't pay who can't seem to master _discreet_ , and yes I'm including myself in that category.)

Mark smirks at me when I close the door, his eyes skimming over what there is of my outfit. "Did you tip him in cash or just in … kind?"

"So amusing." I shake my head at him; he's still a little blurry, but he wouldn't be Mark if he didn't turn every possible moment into one more opportunity for a lecherous comment. How long have we all known each other? Sixteen years? Seventeen?

No wonder nothing surprises me anymore.

For a moment we just look at each other without speaking, and I try not to think what this room must look like to the busboy, to a stranger, to _me_ if I could get the scales off my eyes. Nothing more or less than the two loneliest people in Seattle killing time in a big, empty hotel room. The same room … but not together.

Here's me, pushing forty, half naked, and all but throwing myself at someone who was screwing another woman an hour ago. Someone who screwed me out of my marriage _and_ any chance of an amicable divorce.

 _Stop_ , I tell myself, not even sure if I mean _stop_ before you have sex with Mark or _stop_ blaming him for everything when you were a willing participant.

 _Stop._

 _Just stop!_

(But I never listen. Not even to myself. It's a problem.)

"Addison…" Mark shakes his head as I approach him. The carpet is thick and soft under my bare feet; at least the neighbors can't complain too much. Next door, though … that's a different story.

He lets me kiss him – _lets_ – and then he pushes me back.

"What?" I sound impatient because I am.

"Just take it easy."

"Take it easy. Seriously?" I glare at him. "I had a lousy day. A really, truly terrible day and now you're saying no? You're Mark, you don't say no."

"I say no sometimes," he mutters.

"No you don't," and I let my tone turn to teasing, let my body talk to him instead of my voice; it's not like he's listening anyway.

Everything is still blurry; I taste like gin so he will too. He's still dressed in the t-shirt and sweats he wore to my room, but I'm sitting on his lap now in the loveseat.

I don't even know how I got there but the feeling of his thighs underneath mine is making little pops of light go off behind my eyes.

"Addison…"

I ignore him and work on unbuttoning my blouse, which would be easier if I weren't so … whatever I am. Drunk, tired, some combination of both of them that's making each buttonhole feel more complicated than the MCATs. It takes multiple tries and Mark finally has to help me.

I can see his resolve weakening.

 _Who's waiting now?_

He'll give in … I know he will.

I'm wearing a pretty bra, navy silk and cream colored lace and I know when he slides the back of one finger against the fabric – he doesn't meet my eyes – that I've got him.

No surprise there.

His fingers are skimming up my rib cage and I'm leaning forward, letting my long hair brush against him in the way I know he likes. _Distract me_ , I'm begging him, and his thumb slips under the band of my bra. I sigh against his mouth …

… and then there's another knock on the door.

Ugh.

The perils of hotel life. (Well, "life.")

"He probably forgot something." I shrug, climbing off of Mark with some effort – he has to steady me, and then he points to my discarded blouse but I ignore him. I don't think I could manage to get that back on even if I wanted to.

I just leave my shirt on the carpet and pull open the door, about to say _did you forget something_ , but it's not the busboy standing there.

It's not the busboy at all.

(Okay … so _now_ I'm surprised.)

* * *

 _To be continued. Don't throw things! I'll have Chapter 17 up before 2018, and things are about to start moving forward in a way that I think you'll want to stick around for. Thank you so much to all of you who have responded to this story. Please review and let me know what you think - I would love to hear your thoughts._


	17. not enough

_**A/N:** Thank you so much for your reviews on this story - I appreciate them so much! I'm sorry this update took so long. Most of this chapter has been written for a long time, but for some reason I've been blocked on finalizing it. But here it is, and I hope you enjoy it. Thank you again for reading. _

* * *

..  
 _not enough  
_..

* * *

(Okay … so _now_ I'm surprised.)

I'm propping the heavy door open; he blinks and then he's studying the carpet.

He looks a little windblown, and a little – concerned, actually, which confuses me. One of his hands is fisted around something I can't see. Maybe he's going to stab me in the back with an actual knife this time.

"Addison."

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't. He's still standing on the other side of the open door with one hand stuffed in the pocket of his coat, like he's the one waiting for something.

"…Derek," I reply after a moment, even if I'm not sure what's going on. My voice feels slurred in my head but I can still pronounce his name.

He nods like he's taking in what I said, which just confuses me more. "Look," he says, "about before, I just wanted to – "

Abruptly, he stops talking.

First I see his expression change … and then I see why: Mark has ambled into the frame.

Great.

"How's the hangover?" he asks Derek casually. He lifts an eyebrow at the two of us, looking calmly insolent. Derek ignores him, just staring for a moment, and then turns to glare at me.

"Seriously?" he asks, sounding disgusted.

"What?" I probably sound defensive but I'm also, like I said before, confused. And pretty drunk.

"I was _worried_ about you, Addison." He shakes his head. "And here you are screwing him again."

He's not being very quiet and didn't I make that promise about not conducting all my personal business in hotel hallways? With some effort, I open the door a little wider but he's already walking through it; I can't actually tell who moved first.

There's a click when the electronic lock activates again.

And then he's just standing there, glaring at me.

"I'm not screwing him," I say finally.

 _Unfortunately_.

I'm not really sure whether I say that part out loud or in my head.

I look over at Mark – I don't know why; maybe I think he'll chime in and defend me. He doesn't say anything. He actually seems sort of amused.

Derek blinks, then gestures toward the lower half of my body. "You're not screwing him? Is that why you're wearing his boxers?"

(Don't ever let it be said that my husband doesn't know how to cut to the chase.)

Ex-husband. _Ex._ Damn it.

"Actually, Derek … I think they're _your_ boxers," Mark says with a smirk.

Before I can react, Mark's moved me closer by the hips like I'm an IV pole and he's reaching into the back of my shorts.

"Hey!" I slap his hand when it grazes my skin – kind of clumsily; I make contact though – but not before he apparently sees the tag.

And it apparently amuses him.

"Yours, Derek. Definitely yours. They're not my size," he says with a wink. "Mine are … bigger."

"You realize that size is the circumference of your waist … so that's not actually something to be proud of?" Derek is glaring at Mark, which I suppose effectively keeps him from asking me why I'm wearing his underwear.

So that's good.

Why _am_ I wearing his underwear? The answer, if you're wondering … is because they're comfortable. Because they're comfortable, and I've been wearing his flannel boxers for sixteen years. He stopped wearing them – switched to cotton, and then the broadcloth ones I liked on him that he complained were too expensive.

I kept wearing the flannel ones, though.

(I never said I was good at handling change.)

When I try to focus, now, I see that Derek looks annoyed. I may be drunk, and some of his edges may be blurred, but I can still read his face.

Not because I want to. I don't.

I don't want to read it.

I don't like the way his face looks when it looks at me. Not anymore. Like he's indifferent and repulsed all at once. Like he regrets me, but also like he never knew me. Then I remember the color of his eyes in the supply closet when he stripped away what was left of my good memories of him and my throat starts to feel too small.

He frowns at me. "You're drunk."

"Well … you're smug. So I guess no one's perfect."

I laugh a little at my own joke; he doesn't. He's still staring at me.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Not enough," I tell him. I prop a hand on my hip but then I have to try to hike up the boxers that are sliding down my hips; Mark grabbing at them messed up that perfect roll of the waistband that makes them fit perfectly, like they really are mine.

It takes me two tries; when I look up again Derek looks disturbed, or maybe disgusted again. I'm going to tell him to leave but then he turns away from me and talks past me.

"Mark, you _really_ think she's sober enough to consent?"

"What is this, Court TV?" Mark frowns. "Not like it's your business … but I didn't do anything. Even though she practically forced herself on me," he adds.

He says it lightly, but, come on – seriously?

(Well, okay, it's kind of true, but that doesn't mean he has to say it, and to Derek of all people.)

And Mark already gave in before Derek interrupted, let's be clear, and I was _this close_ to getting what I needed, to not having to feel. Derek with his stupid timing ruined all that and I don't like that I'm starting to feel. I don't like _how_ I'm starting to feel.

Raw, like someone peeled off a bandage too soon.

That's not how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to be numb, I _need_ to be numb, and having Derek here is messing everything up.

Messing it up even more than it was messed up before.

"Go away, Derek," and I'm pretty sure those words are out loud.

"You're drunk," he says, and I can't tell if I have déjà vu, if I'm really _that_ far gone, or if Derek and I are just talking the same circles around each other we did a minute ago.

Whatever it is … it's making me dizzy.

"You know what they say about Shepherds in glass houses," Mark tells Derek. "Especially the ones whose drunk asses had to be dragged back here ... what was it, twenty-four hours ago?"

Mark's standing up to Derek for me, which makes me smile.

(Or maybe he's just trying to get Derek's goat, and it was never about me at all. But I don't like to think about it that way. I already feel invisible enough.)

"That's different," Derek mutters.

"Why is it different?"

Derek looks annoyed with Mark now and it's kind of nice to see that expression directed at someone who isn't me. Even if it's confusing too.

They keep talking.

They're not talking to me. They're talking to each other. But they're talking _about_ me.

I feel like I'm only picking up every third word or so. They're dull stings, like when I'd get hit with the ball in one of Archer and my legendary table tennis marathons. You know – it didn't hurt, exactly. But then later it would bruise.

"She has friendly neighbors," Mark is saying, managing to make that sound dirty, I don't even know why I'm surprised, "clean sheets every day and whatever she needs at the touch of a button."

I guess they're talking about the hotel.

Mark points to the phone. "See? She's fine."

"Clearly."

I'm going to intervene any minute but they're talking too fast and the sarcasm and I can't banter like I should when I've spent the better part of the night nursing that damn bottle of gin.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm _saying_ this has nothing to do with – "

I'm not even sure which one of them is talking now. They're arguing, and it's hurting my head.

"Can you both shut up, please?"

I have my hands hovering near my ears.

They're so _loud._

Derek is shaking his head at me. "Addison, can't you just – how about putting on some clothes?"

I look down, reminded I'm wearing a bra and a pair of flannel boxers. "No, thank you," I tell him. "This is my _home_ , you know. I can dress however I want here."

He looks a little uncomfortable when I say _home_ – welcome to the club, honey, it's not exactly the height of warmth and homeyness to live in a freaking hotel room, but where does he think I went when his little prom indiscretion forced me out of his portable mid-life crisis?

It's not like he hasn't been in this room before.

Without an invitation. Kind of like now.

I don't know why they let him up, actually. Then … or now.

I guess it's just because he's Derek. People who don't know him think he couldn't possibly do any harm.

Mark and Derek and are talking again, maybe more arguing – I feel a little distant from them, a little far like they're inside a bar and I'm outside it. Like winter nights when the glass would fog up when we took smoke breaks in turn so we wouldn't lose our seats.

 _We._ That's all three of us.

Derek would probably deny it if you asked but he didn't stay up all night getting the second-best grades in our class by eating muesli and taking belly breaths. That came later. When we were young, when our bodies were still flexible enough to take the damage – we were rougher. We took more risks.

(We didn't think we were doing any damage, not then. But maybe we just weren't leaving any marks.)

Truthfully, even if a part of me is enjoying Derek's discomfort, I wouldn't mind wearing some clothes. It's cold in this room, in that impersonal hotel-meat-locker way, and I'm this odd combination of hot and cold now; my cheeks feel flaming but all that bare skin feels chilled. I'd cross my arms for warmth but I don't actually trust myself to keep my balance that way.

"Nice, Mark." Derek is back to fighting with him, apparently, "she can barely stand up, but I guess she doesn't have to stand up for what you have in mind?"

"I can stand up," I mutter in my own defense, but I think I stumble over the words a little, and then I stumble for real and Mark grabs the back of my boxers to keep me from falling over.

Which is not a particularly comfortable maneuver, but it does work.

"Even for you," Derek is saying, and I'm tired of hearing his voice droning with judgment, tired of hearing him talk to me, about me, like a disgusted stranger, "this is low, Mark."

"Low _even for me_ ," Mark repeats. "Right. Because you're so concerned about her?"

Derek doesn't say anything but he must give some indication of _yes_ because I hear Mark snort with some disbelief/disgust combination that I appreciate.

"Why the hell do you think she was drinking in the first place?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Derek asks, sounding indignant.

I see Mark shake his head. "Just like you don't know why _you_ were drinking last night, right?"

Derek doesn't respond. He turns to me. "Addison – what are you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing?" I'm pleased with how clear I'm _pretty_ sure I sound.

"I just wanted to …" He doesn't finish his sentence. "Before, at the hospital, I wasn't …"

He stops again.

Maybe he wants to apologize. Maybe he realizes that treating me like shit in front of the woman he supposedly loves makes him look like a prime asshole.

"I was worried," he says finally. He doesn't sound worried, though.

He sounds annoyed.

"What, you want congratulations … because you were worried? Congratulations, Derek, no one cares."

"I care," he says.

Oh, _please._

He looks at me and winces a little. "Can't you put some clothes on?"

"Don't act like you haven't seen it already. Or like it's doing anything for you."

"Addison." He picks my shirt up off the carpet and throws it to me; I do try to catch it but it ends up on the floor again anyway. "Pull yourself together."

When I don't try to pick the shirt up – you wouldn't want to bend down if you were me either, not when standing straight is a challenge right now – he goes to the dresser against the wall without permission and pulls open a drawer.

Second drawer, right side. Where I keep the things I sleep in. _That_ he remembers.

He crosses the room and puts the shirt directly in my hands this time. I guess he doesn't trust me to catch it, and he's not wrong.

I examine the t shirt. It's soft and faded, like a memory, but I recognize it – it's from some charity 10K we ran in Manhattan. It was Peds related, though I don't recall the context – I do recall laughing guiltily with Derek at the graphic on the shirt, which involved a bright yellow frowny-face and seemed altogether inappropriate for raising money for sick children.

Mark takes the shirt out of my hands and helps me put it on, which makes me feel partly like a child and partly like an idiot, and neither part feels good. The shirt feels good, though – it's impossibly soft like only the years can make fabric, and I'm warmer now.

Derek is still looking at me with distaste. I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember that he used to love me.

I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember anything.

I try to catch Mark's eye to make a face at him or get him to defend me or _something_ but he's looking at Derek and he's making that _I didn't do anything wrong_ Mark face with his hands spread like he has no culpability for any of this.

They're talking to each other, talking past me again, and it's annoying.

He turns to Mark. "How long has she been like this?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here."

I say it out loud, I'm _almost_ positive I do, but they don't seem to notice.

There's at least one way for me to get Mark's attention that shouldn't fail, even if his best-friend-maybe-reason-he-came-to-Seattle is in the room.

I stumble over to drape my arms around Mark's waist – he can't say no, Mark doesn't know _no,_ but he just un-drapes them, stepping aside and leaving me with empty hands.

I can't figure out who looks more uncomfortable, Mark or Derek.

(And I don't have a mirror, so I can't tell where I rank either.)

"Addison …" Derek shakes his head, blurrily, and then takes a bottle of water from the mini fridge and rips the cap off, then hands it to me.

"Drink this."

I push it back to him. " _You_ drink it."

He speaks my name with exasperation, then turns to Mark. "Great idea to let her drink this much."

"Hey." I poke Derek in the chest with one unsteady finger. "He didn't _let_ me. No one _lets_ me do stuff. I just … do stuff. I just do … whatever."

"That's something to be proud of." Derek shakes his head,

Of course he's going to start insulting me again.

What's that he said, in the supply closet?

(Who am I kidding, I don't have to try to remember. I'm not likely to forget any time soon.)

"Derek … " I wait until he looks at me. "Remember when you said you only ever wanted to screw me, and _that's_ not going to happen, so … why are you still here?"

He blinks and something that almost looks like regret crosses his face.

But Derek doesn't regret. He'd have to think he screwed up to do that.

I'm probably just drunk.

When I look over at Mark his face is grim and I realize I forgot to tell him that pearl of wisdom from Derek in the supply closet.

I _forgot_ to tell Mark most of that conversation, actually. I guess I didn't want to know his reaction. I'm not sure I could have taken it if he'd confirmed it, and if he denied it – well, I'd probably think he was just trying to make me feel better. That's how well Derek knows how to hurt me.

(Untreatably.)

Derek seems to be noticing the bottle of gin for the first time. He picks it up and studies the label – I can tell from his face that he remembers – and then he tips it, examining the liquid.

"Was this full any time recently?"

I have to think about it for a moment. "When I bought it … I guess," I tell him.

"When was that?"

"Tonight."

He curses softly. " _Mark_."

"Stop saying Mark! He didn't … pour it on my throat."

That sounds wrong, but I'm not sure how to fix it.

Derek doesn't say anything, just takes my shoulders and looks at my face.

I don't like being this close to him, it's doing funny things to my insides, and if he hates me so much it's not fair that now he's turning my face toward the light and trying to look at my eyes because his fingers feel warm on my skin and he smells the same as he did when he used to make me feel so good.

For a minute I think I'm not breathing.

"What are you doing?" I ask him.

Our faces are so close now that my exhale moves his hair a little. He kind of winces; I guess I have gin breath.

"Trying to see if you poisoned yourself with too much alcohol, or just the right amount."

"Very funny. You are … so, so funny, Derek."

"You're less funny, Addison." He frowns at me. "You shouldn't drink like this, you know."

"What do you care?"

"I just care," he says simply.

"Well, don't!" I go to shove him but I miss and stumble against the dresser – _fuck,_ that hurt – okay, maybe I have had a fair amount of gin; he grabs my arm and pulls me upright before I can fall and then I shake him off.

Hard.

"Addison, would you just – "

"No, stop! I don't care!" I'm screaming now even though _a lady never raises her voice_ and I don't care about that either.

I'm too angry; there's a red haze in front of my eyes and if I thought I could manage it without falling I think I'd like to slap his smug face one more time.

Because something is building up inside me.

Whatever it is, it hurts and it's pressing to get out. I just know I have to keep it in and I try to press my fingers into my temples but it's complicated. It's too hard. Everything feels too hard right now.

I need him to leave, I need them _both_ to leave, and when Derek says my name again his voice cuts into my haze and it's all too much.

"Shut up, Derek! Shut _up_!"

Now _he's_ the surprised one.

But I don't stop.

"I never asked you to worry about me! I never asked you to do anything! You said you wanted me out of your life, so _get out_ of mine! And you can start by getting the hell out of my hotel room!"

Except I think it would sound more convincing if I could stop crying.

But I can't.

 _This_ is why I never start if I can help it … because stopping is too hard.

And because crying is too awful.

But I can't stop.

These _sounds_ are coming out of me and it feels like someone is rubbing sandpaper on my eyes and my throat is raw agony and I can't stop any of it.

I can't seem to form words except I'm pretty sure I hear _get out_ again to one or both of them.

Neither one of them leaves, though.

They're both standing there like they're sizing me up and I keep backing away from one or the other of them and then another pops up close to me like whack-a-mole.

The room is spinning, sometimes bigger and sometimes smaller and I have no idea how much time has passed since I opened the door.

I hear my name but it sounds like it's from very far away.

Everything is swirling around, swimming all wet from my eyes with the room caving in on me from four sides until I can feel hard little somethings pressing into my cheek – like the kind of buttons on a man's shirt.

One of them must be holding me.

Or maybe they both are because I swear I can feel four arms. And I'm pretty sure I can hear two voices.

Before … when I wanted Derek, Mark was there. And when I had Mark, I wanted Derek back. And when Derek stopped wanting me at all, Mark came here and when Derek told me he was done with me forever I went right back to Mark.

(Confused yet? Imagine how I feel.)

So if they're both here now maybe it's not that strange. Maybe it's not the strangest thing that's happened to me.

Especially since I'm still crying and it's not fair because _I don't cry_ and one of them is shushing me, someone's hands are in my hair, and it's so embarrassing and so terrible that all I can do is close my eyes tightly and pretend I don't need it.

Desperately.

(Because lord knows being desperate is what got me into this mess in the first place.)

All I can do is I close my eyes even tighter because I can't handle much more right now than just hearing the sounds forced out of my lungs and trying to summon the energy for the next set.

I think they're both still here and I guess we'll see who's still hanging on when the storm ends.

* * *

 _To be continued. I have a lot of other WIPs to update, but this story is always on my list and I'm hoping to get the next chapter out pretty quickly. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you will review and let me know your thoughts!_


	18. still here

_**A/N: Thank you so much for your wonderful comments on the last chapter. I hate how hard things are for Addison, though that probably seems hard to believe considering what I put her through in many stories. She's just such a wonderfully layered character. And thank you to the brilliant Addison analyst emk8 for one of the pieces of imagery below. This is a chapter I've been looking forward to sharing with you, and I hope you enjoy it.**_

* * *

..  
 _still here  
_..

* * *

It's dark.

It's dark, and my head is throbbing, and my throat feels raw.

Prying my eyes open hurts, so I close them again and open my mouth instead, with some effort.

"Why are you here?"

My tongue feels thick around the words; my voice sounds hoarse.

"I told you … I was worried about you."

I feel him inhale a little like he thinks his answer is going to anger me. I just shake my head, trying to make sense of it.

"No, I mean why are you … "

 _Still here._

I don't say that, though.

And he doesn't say anything.

"You don't get to worry about me anymore," I say finally.

"Then I guess you don't get to decide what I worry about."

His tone is light. But I don't want him to tease me.

I don't want him to hold me either, except I do, because right now he's stretched out full length on that big empty white hotel bed and the feel of his body against mine is so familiar and it's the least empty it's felt since I moved here.

And that's counting all the many and twisted ways Mark and I used the bed, too…

(It still felt empty, then.)

I don't remember how we got here. I don't remember when Mark left. I don't know if I could sort out the threads of who did what, when, in any way that makes sense.

I just know _now_ , and now is the darkness of this room, two sets of audible inhales and exhales: mine are still husky from before. His are deeper and I can feel his diaphragm expand and contract with each breath.

"You should probably go," I mumble into his shirt.

"You want me to go?" His voice sounds far away.

"No," I admit.

"Okay."

He's quiet for a few minutes, and I feel his hands in my hair, just kind of stroking it with no real rhythm, playing with it, but the lack of pattern is making me hyper aware of his touch because my nerve endings don't know what to expect.

I put my hand up to stop him or guide his movement or _something_ but then my hands are on his face instead, the scratch of his skin against my palms – he's turning, maybe surprised, and then I'm turning too … and then my lips are on his.

I can feel him start to protest right away and I'm the one saying _no_ , but I don't mean _no, stop._

I mean _no, please don't stop me._

Because I need this.

 _God_ , do I need this.

He stops me anyway.

"Hey." He pushes me back, holding my arms. "You don't want to do this."

"How do you know that?" I sound pathetic and I realize that; my voice is still scratchy from crying so much and I can only imagine what my face looks like.

"Addison." He flops back down and I flop with him, giving up, but I'm not ready to let go so I let myself hang on. He tangles his hand in my hair again and I can feel him breathing.

I can't get over how it's so normal and so crazy all at once to have him in this room, on this bed.

Not talking.

Just breathing.

"You were about to have sex with Mark when I knocked on the door tonight," he says finally.

"Yeah … because he was here."

"Is that why?"

I nod against his shirt. "Right. He was just … here."

"That's what you said the first time I walked in on the two of you."

"That's because the first time you walked in on us … he was also just here."

"Maybe you need to find some better way to cope with your life than screwing whoever's _just here_ ," he says it mildly though.

"Some better way to cope, like offense instead of defense, you mean? Like turning it around … attacking you with everything I know about you?" I sit up a little. "All the worst things, all the things you – the things you were never going to tell anyone but then you did, you told the person who was supposed to be the one person who – and …. and then they just …"

 _They just get sharpened into arrowheads and you use them to pierce my armor._

I don't finish the sentence.

I can't finish.

I don't want to remember that supply closet. I don't ever want to remember the things he said to me.

I do, though. And not just the ones I threw in his face, earlier, when the three of us were in a standoff.

All of them.

And I know he does, too.

He actually looks a little sorry now, believe it or not. The lights are off in the room but the shades are open and the city lights are throwing geometric patterns across the white bedding, illuminating parts of his face, off and on.

I'm still pretty drunk, I guess … but I still see it.

"I didn't mean to do that," he says quietly.

"Yeah, you did." I sit up a little more but I don't want to let go; he sits up with me and kind of moves the pillows around behind him and then pulls me back into him with practiced ease. We used to do this all the time, like puzzle pieces, like puppies in a basket.

After all that's happened between us, somehow everything still feels easier with his arms around me.

Maybe we just didn't do this enough. Maybe if we'd done this more, before, we wouldn't be where we are now.

We wouldn't be … just here.

"You may not have meant to do _that_ , but you meant to hurt me," I remind him.

"Yeah … I guess I did." He pauses. "What you told me, that day…"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to.

The abortion.

Had I meant to shock him, when he confronted me in the supply closet? Was I sick of his expression, how he acted like he was so certain of everything, so satisfied with our outcome, while I was drowning?

And I may still be a little alcohol-soaked, but I do know that's sort of unfair when he didn't know everything, not until that day, and that was my fault. I doled out the information. I'm the liar, just like I'm the cheater. It doesn't matter what he does; it always ends up on me.

(Maybe I wanted him to disagree with that.)

He takes a while to finish the sentence.

"I wasn't expecting it," he says finally.

"Yeah, me neither, that's why they call it an unplanned pregnancy."

I sort of regret being so flippant once the words leave my mouth, but he doesn't get angry or pull away.

Maybe he's as exhausted as I am.

"I'm sorry," he says after another long silence.

"You're sorry I'm calling you out on it," I correct him, gently. "You're not sorry you basically told me I'm the worst person in the world."

"I don't remember saying that."

"I'm summarizing."

"Yeah?" He's running his fingers through my hair now. I've cried so much tonight my eyes feel stiff and swollen. His look soft when they focus on me. "You're not the worst person in the world," he says quietly.

"…thanks."

He actually smiles a little at my sarcastic tone. "You're not, though. I'm … I'm sorry, Addison. I'm sorry I said those things."

I don't want him to apologize anymore.

I don't want these feelings anymore.

I need to numb them.

"Derek…" I reach up to fit my fingers into his hair, those curls, and then I'm sitting up too and I swing one leg over his thighs and press my lips to his.

He kisses me back this time – just for a moment, a heartbeat, a habit, his hands moving around my hips and pulling me down and in the minute our bodies are flush I feel electricity and I want more.

I _need_ more.

"No."

The word is a whisper very close to my mouth and I could pretend I didn't hear it…

"Addison … no."

I groan and sit up, shoving my hair back.

"Now why not?"

"Because you're drunk, first of all."

"Barely."

"Please, I saw what you drank," Derek scoffs.

"Yeah, but … I'm me."

He actually laughs a little, and not that sarcastic almost-laugh either. A real one.

"I can't argue with that," he says. "You are definitely you."

"So what's the rest of all?"

"Hm?"

"You said _first of all, you're drunk_. What's the rest of all?"

"The rest of all … ." He pauses. "Well, we're divorced. That's part of it."

I'm sitting up on his lap now, straddling him with one leg on either side of his, we've been in this position so many times that I can't help moving in small ways I barely even mean to and he can't exactly hide that his body is interested even if the rest of him isn't.

Maybe there's still …

"Addie." He moves my hand away. "I said no."

"Fine." I give up, starting to swing my leg off his lap but he holds onto me.

"Change your mind?" I ask hopefully. I'm not so far gone that I don't realize I'm done drinking for the night which means I'll need something else to numb the pain, so…

"No, I didn't change my mind."

Ugh.

"Then why-"

"You don't have to get up just because we're not going to have sex."

"Oh."

To be perfectly honest, the thought hadn't really occurred to me.

"But you're…"

"I can handle it," he says.

Now it's my turn to laugh a little. "Did you –"

"Yes, pun intended. It's okay," and he sounds like he means it so I let myself move back down against him, carefully.

His arms come up around my back and after a few moments I feel my body soften a little until it's curled into his and then his arms move closer in response. I tilt my head to rest against the spot I like between neck and shoulder; he moves his hand into my hair. It's like we're dancing, one step following another.

Truthfully, it feels good.

Really good.

Good enough that I may not even hate myself until the morning.

It feels so good that I don't really understand why I start crying again, a little, or what he's saying quietly against my head, but at some point it feels like we're floating – I usually love that feeling, that right before sleep feeling, and with the last vestiges of strength before I'm dreaming I hold on a little tighter, even if he won't be there when I wake up.

Because he's here now.

..

Except he's still here in the morning.

If this counts as morning, because it's a dull blue-grey Seattle dawn when I manage to pry open my eyelids – they feel about four inches thick, swollen, heavy.

But whatever it is … he's still here.

He's sleeping next to me with one arm thrown up over his head like he does, in just an undershirt – at some point he must have stripped off his dress shirt – and it's so strange and so familiar all at once.

He's here, and I'm awake.

And I have a headache.

Shit. I have a _serious_ headache.

I sit up slowly, which feels like trying to balance a bowling ball on popsicle stick – and then I'm dizzy, which makes me grab him because he's the realest thing in the room.

"I have a headache," I tell him when he looks at me.

(He wakes up so fast. Always has, even before internship drilled it into us.)

"You're lucky that's all you have," he says, sounding a little too judgmental for my tastes. "You drank most of a bottle of gin last night."

Child's play.

I wave a hand, but that might have been a mistake because it brings a corresponding wave of nausea.

"… and you're not exactly young anymore," he adds.

Ooh, cheap shot, and now I am _definitely_ nauseous.

I feel bile rising in my throat, bitter and forecasting doom and – yup, there it is, then I'm gagging and throwing up all over the bed and my throat feels like someone's taken a hot rake to it. I feel his hands pulling my hair away from my face but not quite in time.

"Finished?" he asks, sounding a lot calmer than I feel.

"For now. I guess." My pulse is pounding through my temples but my headache is a little better, actually, like I've relieved some of the pressure.

"Good." He stands up, wrinkling his nose a little. "Go take a shower."

"What about …" I gesture toward the mess on the bed.

"I'll figure it out."

I spend a long time in the shower letting the hot water sluice through my hair and run down the drain, waiting to feel clean.

When I come out the sheets are gone; I don't know what he did but it worked; the bed is clean again.

I'm wearing the white hotel-issued robe, my hair is clean and free of vomit. I actually combed it and it's hanging straight down my back; when I sit down on the edge of the bed I can't help but notice it's right where I sat the night Derek found me here to apologize.

(Well. To pretend to apologize, at least.)

I don't think the similarity is lost on him either, based on his face when he walks toward me.

"What?" I ask warily.

(I know I sound suspicious, but can you blame me?)

"Addison … can we try again?"

He looks so young when he asks it, almost – innocent, reminding me of what he was like when we were residents, before everything got so complicated.

"You mean your apology?" I raise my eyes to meet his; I lean on the word _apology_ a little and he doesn't miss it.

His gaze flickers away for a second. "Yeah …"

"Okay."

For a moment he just stands there. I think he's not going to be able to capture that night because he was so … smug, so _happy_ while I just sat there and waited for the next breath to keep me alive.

He's different today.

Somehow, some way I can't exactly describe, he's different.

So I don't know if this is going to work.

"Addison," he says solemnly. "I'm sorry about what happened at the prom." He stops and draws breath.

I frown a little. "You can do better than that."

"I was just getting started," he says defensively.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. So would you just let me-"

"Yes. Sorry."

"Okay, then." He clears his throat. "I'm sorry about what happened at the prom," he says again. "I'm sorry that I … cheated on you, because I do know that that's what it was. And I'm sorry that I did it in that … way, in that public way, and I'm sorry that I let you find her panties. I should have talked to you before that happened. Addison …" he pauses. "I didn't mean to leave them there for you to find. Really."

He stops and looks at me.

"I know," I tell him. "I didn't mean to … leave Mark in our bed for you to find, either."

I've said it before, but the way he's looking at me now makes me think this might be the first time he actually believes it.

He exhales and starts talking again. "I'm sorry that after I punished you for cheating … in so many ways … I turned around and did the same thing. I'm sorry that … mostly, that when we were trying, I didn't try. Mostly, I wasn't trying," he says abruptly. "I wanted to try, I don't know, maybe I didn't, sometimes I did, but I didn't try."

It's convoluted but I get it, and I nod.

"I was wrong," he says. "I was wrong."

And when he repeats himself it's twice more than I ever expected him to say those words to me again.

…not that he said them so many times when we were married.

My instinct is to say _it's okay_ because that's my job, to smooth things over, but the familiar phrase doesn't come.

"I was waiting for you," I say instead, hating the way my voice cracks a little. "At the prom, when you left me on the dance floor, you said you'd be right back."

(Actually, he asked it. _Be right back, okay?_ I've been over that moment a lot of times since that unfortunate night. I also remember that I said _okay._ I okayed it. That alone was worth a few extra swigs of whatever alcohol was handy.)

"Yeah. I know." He looks down at his hands. "Not my finest moment. Addison … I'm sorry."

"I moved here for you," I say, because apparently we're just going to let it all hang out. "And now I'm stuck out here alone."

He mumbles something about Mark and I just shake my head; apparently he still doesn't get it: being with Mark is just … being alone, but in stereo.

"I _am_ sorry."

I nod.

"Look, Addison, that night, after the prom, when I was here … I said _you deserve better._ I meant it."

"But I didn't want _better_ , Derek. I wanted you."

I say it automatically, because it's true, and for a few moments we just look at each other while I silently thank my traitorous brain for managing the past tense.

(Wanted you. Want _ed_. That's what I said. Isn't it? God, I hope so.)

"This is the part where you say _our marriage is over_ ," I tell him, finally.

"Hm?"

"If we're doing a do-over," I remind him. "Then now's when you're supposed to tell me that our marriage is over."

"Oh. Right."

He pauses.

Like he's thinking about it.

Which doesn't make sense because unlike that night, when we actually _were_ still married, now we're divorced.

And that night, he didn't seem like he had to think about it.

(What I can remember of it. I was pretty drunk, numb – that night, the alcohol _did_ do the trick – and I remember the mattress dipping down when he sat next to me, uninvited, and the way his eyes searched my face for a minute before he said it. _Our marriage is over._ )

"Derek…"

"I know."

"You say _our marriage is over,_ and I'll say…" I stop. What did I say after that? I can't remember.

In fairness … like I said, I was pretty wasted.

He sits down next to me, looking at my face. I have some sense memory of that night, whether it's our positions on the bed, my bathrobe, or the spreading numbness – so I guess he must be doing something right.

"You say _yeah, I guess it is,_ " he tells me.

"Oh."

Huh. I didn't remember that part, but it kind of makes sense. Like eleven years ago – well, almost twelve now – when he asked the question: _will you marry me?_ And I said _yes!_ – like that, with an exclamation point, I was so fucking young. Full circle: _Our marriage is over. Yeah, I guess it is._

I consider this for a minute.

"Okay." I nod a little.

Then I sit there on the edge of the freshly-made bed, waiting for him to say his line so I can say mine.

But he's silent.

"Derek." I glance up at him. "You're supposed to go first. You have to say _our marriage is over._ "

He still doesn't say it.

His head tilts a little to the side in that Derek way of his and he just looks at me.

Like he's the one waiting for something.

"Derek …?"

"I have to go," he says abruptly. "I'm sorry."

He turns on his heel and I don't even have time to call his name before he's gone.

The door closes behind him with a decisive click and I'm left sitting there alone.

Alone … and not a little confused.

* * *

 _ **To be continued. (And to those of you waiting for updates on other stories, like Some Bright Morning, I promise you they're in the queue.) I love hearing your thoughts, so I hope you will review. Thank you, as always!**_


	19. something sweet, something savory

_A/N: This story. I can't believe it's been this long since I updated. This story has a special place in my hard drive (which is what I have in place of a heart, I guess). I feel confident it's different from any of my others and that sometimes makes it hard to write, and sometimes easy. I loved the last chapter, and picking up from there was challenging. But here we are, and you can expect the next update a lot sooner ... assuming you are still reading and enjoying this story. And I hope you are, because I think you're going to like where it ends up. And for now, I just hope you like this chapter._

 _You may want to skim the last chapter before this one, but if you don't, that's fine too: in the last scene, Derek and Addison quasi-reenacted his apology scene from "I Am a Tree," except for Derek's line, "our marriage is over." He couldn't say it ... and then he left._

* * *

..  
 _something sweet, something savory  
_..

* * *

I sit there for a while on the side of the bed after Derek leaves my hotel room, just – looking at the door.

It's not long before the buzzer sounds again.

Okay, here we go.

I don't know if I'm relieved or nervous that he's back, but I cross the carpet faster than someone with my hangover should and pull open the door.

"What did you for – "

 _Get_ , that's the second syllable that dies on my tongue once I have the door open.

It's not Derek, at all. It's a uniformed waiter whose blank expression assures me he's going to pretend not to notice anything odd about our encounter.

(If only I could pay the rest of Seattle for that courtesy.)

"May I come in, Dr. Montgomery?" he asks.

I just step back and let him cross in front of me, wheeling his linen-covered table, which seems to be straining under the weight of numerous silver-domed dishes.

He fusses just enough – they're good, at the Archfield – pouring out a crystal goblet of orange juice that I hope won't make me gag until he's left, and a cup of coffee that I think I'd bathe in if not for the temperature.

And then he pours another goblet of orange juice.

And another cup of coffee.

He's about to whisk the silver domes off two plates when I thank him and send him on his way with a hefty tip.

Then I sit back down on the bed, confused again.

The breakfast seems to be for two.

And I didn't order it.

Derek ordered it, then? When I was in the shower and he did … whatever he did to get the bed cleaned off, fresh sheets, no traces of my losing the bottle of gin _or_ losing control?

I don't get it.

I really don't get it.

I poke a few holes in the overstuffed omelet I find under one of the silver domes. There's a fat Belgian waffle under the other silver dome, covered in berries and powdered sugar.

 _Something sweet, something savory._

Like we used to when – but that doesn't matter.

I'm on my second cup of coffee now, still sitting on the clean white duvet, still trying to figure out if this is actually _breakfast for two_ or a hangover breakfast for me, so large that the wait staff assumed it was for two. Derek has seen me destroy more food than this after a night of drinking – it's rare, but it happens.

That must be it.

..

So … I'm still confused.

I'm contemplating taking another shower – it's certainly damp enough in this corner of the country for me not to feel guilty about wasting water.

But I don't really _want_ another shower.

What I want is to figure out what's going on, to sort through the buzzing strands of confusion in my head. And routine seems like the right way to do it.

It's like the OR. Stick with routine, keep it clean.

In the big white bathroom, there's actually a fluffy white towel laid out on the counter. I guess the OR metaphor is stronger than I thought, and I smile a little when I see a silver glint when I approach.

I must be hallucinating surgical instruments.

(Bad sign? Hey, a bottle of gin at what Derek tactfully pointed out what my not-so-young-age … you never know.)

Except when I get closer I see the glint isn't surgical instruments at all.

It's my rings.

Engagement, wedding, lying next to each other on the towel.

Like I used to do when we stayed in hotels, with my jewelry. Not my rings – I showered in them, I did everything in them, but I'd take off earrings, necklaces, bracelets, whatever I was wearing, and I'd set them neatly on a spread out towel.

It's just practical, you know, keeps the jewelry from god forbid blending in with a marble counter, camouflage style. Or slipping to the ground. It's the safe way to do it.

I didn't take my rings off, though. Not here, and I didn't put them on the towel. I put them in Derek's hand, and then he showed up at the door and offered them back to me, and I said no, and then he left, and sometime in between _no_ and _left_ , he ordered a giant breakfast and left my rings on a towel in the bathroom.

And I thought I was confused, before.

..

I spend a lot of time fixing my hair before I leave for work. It's nice to be able to fix _something_ , and I do the same with makeup. I can't quite cover the dark circles under my eyes, but I can at least improve them.

And if all else fails – I choose a shirt that will hopefully provide enough distraction. It's black, with a neckline I'd describe as _tastefully plunging._ At home I used to wear it with a chunky gold necklace Derek bought me for one of our early anniversaries.

I don't have it here, so I leave my throat uncovered. At least I don't have any hickeys today. Baby steps, right?

The hall is empty when I leave, just a row of folded newspapers on the floor. At least I don't have to be at work at the crack of dawn anymore, but I can't help noticing that among the people I don't see, is Mark.

I've gotten used to seeing him before I leave for the hospital, in the lobby or the hallway, making his way to or from the gym, whatever. Sometimes I'll catch a ride with him to work and frankly I wouldn't mind that this morning. My head is still throbbing.

But there's no sign of him.

No text either, or call.

I'm not sure why – it could be any of a number of reasons. It could be he's giving me space. He could be mad about Derek. He could have gone to work and forgotten about me, he could be screwing the latest Miss Puget Sound.

You never know with Mark.

I think one of the things I miss most about Derek is that you _do_ know with him.

Or at least I did.

..

My head feels no better by the time I get to work. I know I look good – well, from a distance anyway – but I can't help feeling I'm wearing _morning after_ like a second perfume. I find myself making little decisions on the way through the halls, making sure I avoid awkwardness.

As in avoid Derek.

(Also, I mean, I pinned Meredith's tiny panties on the bulletin board of this hospital, the _avoid awkwardness_ ferry has definitely left the terminal.)

I kind of sidle past the turnoff to his office like I remember doing with his desk at school a hundred years ago, the morning after the first time we … well, you know. I had wet hair from his shower and even though I stopped at my dorm and changed my clothes, I still felt like everyone could tell.

Mark winking at me, in that _Mark_ way that's mostly leer, didn't help, either.

And then I did see him, and I blushed, and he blushed, and _god_ , we were babies. It felt worth it, then. I made him wait – just kidding, we were twenty-two. Basically walking hormones. By the time he got up the nerve to ask me out the only waiting we did was _barely_ waiting until we'd left lab to start tearing each other's clothes off.

(And later we did christen the lab. More than once.)

"Good morning, Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd," a resident says brightly, and I'm thankful she can't see what I'm thinking.

I just nod at her instead of greeting her. Or correcting her. I'm tired of it. Can't I just hire someone to cover up the scarlet A on my back with a D instead – for divorcee?

Or an L for loser.

I lost Derek.

A long time ago. Back in New York. But I lost him again here, _after_ I lost my practice … my friends … and my home.

Am I looking for sympathy? I don't know. Just throw on a _P_ for pathetic and pretty soon my back will be covered with letters, like the acid-wash jean jacket I used to think was the height of cool.

"Good morning, Dr. Shepherd."

 _Oh, for fuck's sake._

"Good morning, Denise."

I wonder if I sound as tired as I feel.

And even though I'm avoiding him, now's the time I would normally want to see him. Because up until last night, the only bright spot in half of Seattle apparently being unable to put two and two together and spell divorce was how uncomfortable I know it makes Derek when someone calls me Dr. Shepherd.

Or worse, Montgomery-Shepherd. Because it's a reminder that we used to be joined. He's still Dr. Shepherd. I used to be Dr. Shepherd. But I was also Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd, and I was the only one. I'm the only connection point between our two names.

Our two families.

Put them together, and make a new family.

Now I'm just Dr. Montgomery again.

(And, to be clear, I didn't really have a family before.)

It occurs to me, as I keep making my way down the gauntlet with my blackberry in hand like it can protect me: in some ways, my whole life in Seattle has just been one long morning after.

Stares and whispers.

Awkwardness.

People knowing way the hell too much about my sex life.

And just … people _looking_ at me, always broken down along gender lines: men assessing my fuckability, women assessing how likely I am to try to fuck their men.

I mean, I get it, you know? I just think people should be more direct about it.

Don't wait until I pass to scope out my legs. Just be honest about it, go ahead and shout out your score:

 _Eight point five!_

 _Maybe nine in the nineties, assuming she didn't abuse shoulder pads!_

Derek used to think I was vain.

But he also used to think I was beautiful.

He used to do a lot of things.

..

I'm taking a chart from Martha – who greets me with _Good morning, Dr. Shep – I mean Dr. Montgomery,_ which, fine, whatever – when I feel someone coming up behind me.

I turn around and as usual he's a step too close. I lean back against the desk – a mistake, because he leans a little closer and rests his hand on the surface of the desk next to my hip.

"Good morning," he says.

"If you say so."

"Well, you do look a hell of a lot better than you did last night," he smirks.

Only because he's not looking at my face, but I let that one slide. It's not like I didn't know what I was doing when I chose this top.

"You okay?" he asks when I don't respond, his face wrinkled in some suggestion of concern.

I look up at him. He sounds – sincere, I guess, at least for Mark, although I notice his gaze slides right back down to my breasts a minute later.

I guess my blouse is working. Here's to you, Diane von Furstenberg, patron saint of adulteresses everywhere.

"I'm fine," I tell his averted eyes.

He doesn't say anything.

"If I was in such bad shape last night, then why did you leave?"

I don't why I said it.

Or what I expect him to say.

There are other people around, too, but they're giving us space, talking in their own clumps. Mark and I are old news now, I guess.

"Why did I …" He stops talking, frowning a little. "How much do you actually remember about last night?"

Nothing I'm particularly interested in repeating. I just shrug.

"I have a patient," I tell him, gesturing at the chart. When he doesn't respond, I turn back around to the desk. I ignore his breath on my neck.

"Hey, Addison – "

Ugh, fine.

I turn back around.

"What."

"You kept your promise," he says.

"What promise?"

He leans a little closer. "You didn't sleep with me," he murmurs.

And one more time: ugh.

I wait for it …

"You'd look a lot better if you had," he adds, smirking a little.

Huh. Not where I thought that would go.

I figured he'd be more likely to take it the other way, that I'd look even worse. He's Mark, he got a kick out of leaving me wrecked, in New York. I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it, just that Mark was more into the aftermath than I was.

His reputation is for liking the chase, and he does. Don't get me wrong.

He just likes the leftover carcass, too.

Two parts predator to one part scavenger. And I was the carrion.

I wrinkle my nose.

"What?"

For a moment I imagine saying: _You. You, Mark. You disgust me and that's not fair because the truth is, I disgust me. Just like I disgust everyone else._

"Nothing." I shrug when he continues to look at me. "I need coffee."

"Aha." He pulls his other hand out from behind his back, and he's holding a paper cup of coffee.

"For me?"

I can feel my eyes widening. In spite of myself, I'm a little touched.

Until I take a sip.

"That's revolting."

"A little milk, what's the big deal?" He smiles at me. "Beggars can't be choosers, you know. Plus … calcium."

"It's not the milk," I tell him, although I'd much prefer it black and he knows it. "It's whatever disgusting syrupy _thing_ is in there with it. Do I look like a – "

And then I stop talking.

 _Like a teenager?_

 _Like a cheerleader?_

 _Like the perky, perfect little nurse I caught you with last night?_

… or all the ones in New York.

"You didn't get this coffee for me," I point out.

My voice shakes just a little – it's the hangover.

"And yet … you're drinking it," he observes.

"Not anymore, I'm not." I put the cup down. "I wouldn't want to give her my germs."

"A little late for that, Addison. Anything you have … she already has too."

I wince a little. When he gets like this, it's hard to remember why I did it.

Why I threw my life away for someone who's leering at me the way he is.

"And anyway," he adds, grinning, "you didn't seem too worried about her germs last night."

"We didn't sleep together last night," I remind him, keeping my voice down.

"Not for lack of your trying, though."

Any caffeine-related headache improvement is pretty much gone now.

And then I feel his big hand on my neck – warmer than my skin, massaging a little, easing the pressure. The pain dissipates, and I remember why I did it. In New York, and in Seattle.

It was easier than feeling bad.

I end up feeling weak … and stupid.

But what else is new?

Mark releases me and puts the coffee cup back in my hand. "A little syrup won't kill you," he says, "and it's skim milk."

"Which is basically water."

"Which is another liquid you could consider adding to your repertoire," he says, "you know, if you run out of gin."

"Very funny."

The word _gin_ is making my stomach turn a little bit.

To distract myself, I take a sip of the coffee.

Or whatever it is.

Ugh. It tastes, somehow like a combination of those butterscotch candies the housekeeper kept in her apron pocket when I was a kid … and that awful, perfume-y deodorant favored by teenaged girls.

"Snob." Mark smiles at me. "All right. I need to go. I have another cup of coffee to buy."

I try not to roll my eyes.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asks, his voice gruff.

 _I already am. I told you._

I don't answer, though, just take another sip, and make another face.

He leans down a little, and then we both notice the shadow of a pair of scrubs about to cross our path directly. So much for faux-privacy.

He stands back up and just rests one of his oversized hands on my shoulder. It's a little too close to a caress to be friendly-professional, but it should pass.

And besides, it's Mark. I should be grateful he's not trying to unzip my skirt in the middle of the hall.

(Not trying to unzip my skirt in the middle of the hall _again_ , I should say.)

"I'll see you later," he says.

"No, you won't," I remind him, a little too late.

He's already gone.

..

"You made coffee." I raise my eyebrows – which doesn't help the headache. But this is the first bright spot of my morning, since the carafe was empty the last time I stuck my head in the attendings' lounge.

Callie texted me and asked if I wanted to meet for a quick coffee and despite the pain in my head, I had an embarrassing quick little frisson of friendship, _she likes me, she really likes me,_ so of course I said yes.

(Saying no has never really been my inclination, if you haven't noticed.)

"I didn't make coffee. But … someone did." Callie frowns at the now-full carafe; she's got her back to me. "And it's bubbling, and steaming, and … brown, so I guess that's all we need to know. It smells like coffee, anyway."

She turns around then looks me up and down. Softly, she whistles. "How bad is the other guy?"

"What?" My pulse is loud all of a sudden. All I need is for the whole hospital to buzz about me in a hotel room with both of the guys who are _not_ mine.

I guess they're both the other guy.

"Just an expression," Callie says mildly. "I didn't mean anything. Just you seem –"

"I'm not," I say before she can finish.

"Oh. Well, good." She pauses. "Hey – are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little tired."

She gestures for my mug and fills it with coffee.

Heavenly black coffee.

It tastes a little burned, a little watery, but also like manna from freaking heaven and I'm not about to complain.

"You're just a little tired?" Callie repeats.

I nod, taking another long swallow of much-needed coffee.

" _Just a little tired_ like when I work an overnight shift, or _just a little tired_ like when I end up dancing on the table at Joe's?"

I guess I remember how to smile after all. "You dance on the table at Joe's?"

"No," she says. "Not yet, anyway. Why – are you interested?"

"Don't let Mark hear this conversation," I warn her.

Now she's smiling. "He's pretty bad," she says, "and he can make anything sound filthy, but this time we're kind of doing the work for him."

"True." I lean against the wall. Standing up is hard work.

Callie is still looking at me, like she's waiting for something.

"I don't think I'll be dancing anywhere until this hangover wears off," I say finally. "So at this rate, maybe … 2018?"

"So it _is_ that kind of tired." Callie sips her own coffee. "I figured."

"The makeup didn't help?" I try to sound like I'm joking, gesturing to my face. It would be less funny if she knew how long I actually spent on it.

"You look great," she says. "You always _look_ great," and I swear she puts emphasis on the word _look_ like she's trying to tell me something.

But here's the thing.

I'm hungover.

I'm regular-tired, too, which doesn't help.

I have a band of steel around my forehead and a colony of tiny stampeding buffalo in my gut.

And to top it all off, I woke up in bed this morning next to the husband who spent most of the last week doing fairly public – and pretty painful – battle with me.

 _Ex-_ husband.

" _Damn it_ ," I say out loud.

Callie props her hips on the counter, sipping her coffee. "You know what, Addison?"

"What?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this to someone as hungover as you are right now, but … you really seem like you could use a drink."

I'm smiling again. I can't help it. "It's not even eleven. In the morning."

"Practically lunchtime," she says, "which is practically quitting time, which is practically happy hour."

Not like either one of us have ever quit at a normal time. You want to quit at a normal time, you don't become a surgeon.

"Very funny." I take another sip of coffee. "Wait … are you serious?"

"No." She grins at me. "But I do still want that rain check. You know, when you're not so … tired."

I'll take it.

And I tell her that.

For some reason, when I leave the lounge, I feel a little better.

..

I feel a little _more_ better – I know, that's not a thing, but it kind of should be – when I've managed to get up to the cafeteria for another black coffee. I'm not opposed to free coffee, but since whoever is in charge of the lounge carafe is opposed to _good_ coffee, I end up in the cafeteria paying for it.

Where I walk right into Derek's path.

Well, that's a record-scratch on _more better_. Instead, I have to concentrate on not throwing up again.

I knew this would happen: I can't avoid him all day.

But still.

Running into him when he ignores me is one thing. When he baits me is another. When he does both, his party trick of the last few weeks? Yeah, that too.

But I don't know how to run into him this morning. It's not fair that I have to see him. It's not fair that I can't even do my job without this screeching reminder that the guy who stomped all over my heart _and_ the guy who took care of me last night, so gently that it humiliates me to remember … are the same freaking person.

I know the drill. Pretend it doesn't hurt … and even if it still does, hopefully no one will know. With that in mind, I manage a smile and kind of hold my coffee aloft. Like a salute.

 _Hungover adulteress, reporting for duty, sir!_

He pauses when he sees me, pocketing his blackberry.

"How's the headache?" he asks.

"Gone." Another lie.

"Good."

Neither of us speaks for a moment.

And it's awkward, yeah, but it's so _calm_ , it's hard to believe what the last twenty-four hours were like, fighting for control and for breath, and now we're just …

Calm.

No barbs.

No words.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still nauseated. My headache is still pulsing out _De-rek-Shep-herd_ in beats of _one_ two three four, _one_ two three four, but what's weird is that all the fight has sort of gone out of us.

Both of us.

(Not that there _is_ a both of us, but you know what I mean.)

We just sort … exist, for a minute, in the same space. Derek doesn't mention finding me all over Mark last night and I don't mention his taking off this morning and leaving my rings on a towel.

We're quiet, enough so that even though the cafeteria has its typical late morning hum, I can still make out the rhythm of his breaths.

It's probably seconds.

It feels longer.

"You should drink water today," Derek says finally, nodding toward my coffee. "In addition to the caffeine drip, obviously."

"Obviously," I repeat, pushing up the corners of my mouth, as if we're still people who tease each other.

It's just a reflex.

He might as well have hit my knee with a hammer.

I can't help scanning his face quickly, just to see if anything changed, to see if there are answers anywhere in its familiar lines.

If there's to fix the confusion from this morning.

(There isn't.)

"And maybe take the night off," he adds while I'm taking stock of the lines around his eyes. They used to crinkle up when he smiled at me.

"Off work?" I ask.

"Off the bottle," he says mildly.

"Oh." I look down at my bare hands. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

I feel like I should say something else. He's here, in the cafeteria, and I can still remember what his heartbeat felt like under my cheek last night. And I can still remember the way he looked right at me in that supply closet just a few days before that and told me all I'd ever been for him was someone to fuck.

(Not because he meant it, remember. Because he knew it would hurt me.)

And this morning happened. And we're here now. And I should say something.

"I had a long day yesterday," I blurt.

Oops.

I meant I should say something, something … intelligent, not _I had a long day yesterday_ , but I guess I have just about the same amount of control over my speech as I do over the rest of my life.

"Yes." Derek clears his throat a little. "I did get that impression, last night."

That's when I get the distinct sense that this is it.

This is the most we're ever going to talk about last night.

The first time … and the last time.

He's looking at me now, like it's my turn, exactly the way he used to look at me when we'd play cards to pass long nights on call.

 _Okay, Addie, you're up. One time. Make it count._

"Derek … thanks. For, um." I pause. Great work, very articulate, A+. "I was pretty drunk last night," I say finally, keeping my voice low, not wanting to give the scrubs around us more gossip fodder.

Something flickers in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything.

"So, yeah. Thank you," I say again. I take a sip of coffee when he doesn't respond, and wait.

He tilts his head a little, looking at me, and I swear I see his lips start to move.

But then he just nods – brusque-but-polite Derek-language for _don't mention it_ – gives me the briefest of impersonal smiles, and then I'm watching the back of him walk away for the second time today.

..

I have lunch with Callie outside, aware – and not particularly upset – that at this point she and I are basically reenacting that one summer at equestrian camp when Missy Lowell and I decided we would be best friends and proceeded to eat every meal together and roll our hair out on matching orange juice cans for evening program.

That time, it lasted exactly four days before Missy decided I was weird and she was going to be best friends with Catherine Halsey instead.

I didn't really mind; a four-day stint was better than nothing.

(You see, this isn't new. I have a long history of taking what I can get.)

"Addison."

"Hm?"

"You're miles away," Callie says. She drizzles her fingers in the air to get my attention. "Is it somewhere nice? 'Cause I'll come with you. I was thinking a beach, but hey, I'd also go wherever you got that blouse."

Ooh, I've missed having female friends who appreciate my wardrobe.

(Yes, as we know, I've missed having female friends, and friends, _period_ , but you get my point.)

"I'm sorry." I shift some salad on my plate. "I guess I'm still a little hungover."

"Food will help," Callie says cheerfully. "I mean, assuming you eat it instead of just redecorating."

I smile weakly. The salad is kind of turning my stomach, but there wasn't anything more appealing in the cafeteria. I would have skipped lunch entirely, but the appeal was, to be honest, Callie – as in, a human being who isn't either disgusted by me, ignoring me, or trying to undress me – and I don't mind the fresh air, either.

I never told Derek that I kind of liked the open-air seating in this cafeteria. It beats the way the outdoor benches used to get covered with grime, back home. You could run your finger along it on a late night break and even after sunset still see the black smudges.

I never told him I liked anything about Seattle.

 _Is there anything you like about me?_

I asked him that, and he didn't really answer.

And I moved here anyway.

I put a cucumber in my mouth so I won't have to talk and let Callie start a story about muscling some semi-pro athlete into line with her ortho skills.

"Don't look," she says abruptly, interrupting her own story, and I pause with a forkful of lettuce halfway to my mouth and follow her gaze to the doors leading back inside.

"I _just_ said don't look," she mutters. "Why do people always look when you say that? But since you're looking anyway … manwhore alert at eleven o'clock."

She turns her back, purposefully, but I still have a practically straight-line view to Mark. He's smirking at both of us across the open-air cafeteria and if I know him at all it's taking most of his self-control not to follow it up with an obscene gesture.

That's Mark for you. He thinks if he contributes to the ACLU it doesn't matter that he can't conceive of a single reason why two women would be interested in spending time together if not for his personal entertainment.

Then he waves at me, and it would probably look jaunty to an outsider, even friendly, but I've been around Mark enough to be aware it actually says _you know what I can do with these fingers_.

Ugh.

"Sloan?" Callie asks, I guess reading the look of disgust on my face.

I nod, continuing to ignore him.

"Now what's he doing?"

"He's just … being himself," I report.

Callie leans back in her chair. "I am _so_ glad he's out of my system," she sighs.

"Me too." I swallow the rest of my coffee without looking at her.

..

I actually do feel better after coffee and food and time and all those old-wives' tales. Maybe next I'll try something crazy like getting a good-night's sleep or drinking eight glasses of water a day.

Miracles can happen.

And I actually have a light afternoon – nothing in the OR, thankfully, but I do need to check in on one of my grumpier patients. She's on bed rest, much to her chagrin – she's having triplets, she's waiting for them to be big enough for me operate. One of them has an unspecified spinal malformation. And Eleanor, well, she's been here a month at this point, and the end result is that she's not exactly Miss Mary Sunshine.

Then again, if you've ever had three small people pressing against your organs _and_ been tilted back at an angle all day long to keep your cervix closed … you might not be happy either.

"How are you feeling, Eleanor?"

"Lousy," she grumbles. I can't see her face that well in the inclined bed, but I can tell she's rolling her eyes, all the way to her dyed-platinum hairline. "So I guess you're not operating today?"

"The babies still need more time to make the surgery as effective as possible, and increase the chance of success."

"I thought you were a fetal surgeon," she snaps. "If you're just going to wait until they're born why don't you get me a regular surgeon?"

Oh, this is so not what I need right now.

"We've discussed this, Eleanor," I remind her, giving her my best _the patient is never right but we might as well be nice to them anyway_ smile. "The spinal cord development in the weeks after – "

"Would you just get out if you have nothing useful to say?"

I blink when she cuts me off, trying to decide how annoyed I am.

There's a knock on the open door.

I turn around, surprised to see Derek in the doorway.

"You wanted a consult?" he asks.

Confused, I cross the room to speak to him with relative privacy. "Graves has been working with her," I tell him slowly. "He did the initial exam. I paged him."

"He's in the OR. Can it wait until later, or do you want me to look at her now?"

"It can wait forever, apparently," Eleanor calls from her bed. I guess our voices carry more than I thought.

"Good luck," I mutter to Derek, who frowns at me, like he's never had a bitchy patient.

Let's see him dreamy this one up.

"Mrs. Rivers!" he says cheerfully, sounding a hell of a lot happier than he did when he was talking to me. "Good to see you. Dr. Graves is with another patient right now, but Dr. Montgomery has asked me to examine you."

"Who the hell is Dr. Montgomery? And who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Shepherd," he says, and I stand there waiting for the floor to swallow me up, amazing blouse and all. Hopefully they have good dry cleaners in hell.

Eleanor looks about as happy as I feel. "If you're Dr. Shepherd, then who is she?" She jabs a finger toward me, the one with the pulse-ox monitor, and it falls off.

Naturally.

When I move to put it back on her, she jerks her hand away, knocking the chart out of mine.

"Hey." Derek moves forward, putting himself between us. "Let's settle down, Mrs. Rivers. I don't want you to overexert yourself."

Then he leans down to pick up the chart, which – I'll give him credit – is pretty damned dreamy, at least to someone who would probably throw up if she had to lean over that far.

He also puts the monitor back on the patient's finger once he's returned the chart to me, speaking quietly to her, and I can see her softening.

Of course I can. Eleanor Rivers may be a bitch, but even bitches aren't immune to those eyes.

(If they were, I might be in a much different place.)

She's calmer now. Of course she is. He's got his gaze fixed on her, all … soft.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks. His tone is gentle and reasonable. Derek's always been great with patients.

He used to be great with me too. But even after he stopped being great with me – he was still great with patients.

"I'm _fine_." Eleanor is glaring at me for some reason, her face flushed. "Dr. Shepherd," she begins.

"Yes?" we say at the same time and now I'm the one flushing.

And then Derek glances at me and I find myself hoping for a quick aneurysm. Nothing too painful, just wipe me out once and for all before I have to deal with this.

It doesn't come.

Derek looks like he's about to say something. He inclines his head toward me, just slightly. "Add – "

"Is Dr. Graves coming or not?" Eleanor asks loudly, interrupting him.

"Dr. Graves is in surgery right now," I tell her. "Dr. Shepherd is going to examine you."

She looks from Derek to me irritably.

"What is this, _Who's on First_? What's the matter with you?" She glares at me, and then back to Derek. "I don't have time for this," she announces, which is pretty amusing considering she's on mandated bed rest.

 _I'm_ the one who doesn't have time for this.

And Derek's the one who speaks.

"Mrs. Rivers, I'm so sorry for the confusion," Derek says smoothly. "I'm a colleague of Dr. Graves – "

Actually he's his boss, _chief of neurosurgery_ and all, but Derek is also surprisingly great at being less arrogant when it suits him.

" – and if it's all right with you, I'm going to take a look at you now, so that I can tell Dr. Graves how you're doing."

"Fine." She leans back against the pillow huffily. "Is my husband here?" she asks without looking at either one of us.

 _Do I look like fucking guest services?_

"I don't know, Eleanor," I tell her patiently, "but if you'd like someone to – "

"Forget it. Just do it," she tells Derek.

"Dr., uh, Dr. Montgomery … Shepherd," Derek adds quietly, glancing at the patient. "May I …"

Oh, right. I'm blocking his access to Eleanor.

I step out of the way, and let him work his magic.

I'm fine with it.

I really am.

I'm always happy to have Derek consult on one of my patients, our previous case together notwithstanding.

And if I have a shameful moment – just one – where I'm jealous of poor Eleanor Rivers with her sixty-pound weight gain and her uncomfortable tilted bed and her fragile unborn triplets, just because Derek's hands are on her face now, gently? If I admitted that, you wouldn't judge me too harshly, would you?

Yeah, I know.

You totally would.

It's okay, I can't really blame you. I'm judging me too.

The thing is, I know it's stupid and I know she's a patient and he's just … doctoring her, but my head hurts, my stomach aches, and I can't seem to helping thinking all that might feel better if I were the recipient of Derek's focus right now.

Go ahead. Judge away. No argument here – it's humiliating.

And it's stupid.

But at least admit that Derek gets some of the blame, too.

It's not my fault he was there last night, in my hotel room, saying things, leaving the rings, making me remember – after all of the garbage that's happened between us and all of the swings he's taken at me – making me remember just how _good_ my husband can be.

 _Ex_ -husband, I mean.

 _Damn it._

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

It's not even two o'clock and the verdict is in.

It's going to be another long fucking day.

* * *

 _To be continued. Thank you for reading, and I hope you will review because first of all, I love hearing your thoughts, and second of all, I'm on a crazy posting roll and reviews feed me like nothing else._


	20. oversteps

_A/N: Thank you so, so much for your response to the last chapter. This story is one that sometimes comes in great leaps and bounds, and now seems to be one of those times. Good news if you like this story: the next three or four chapters are pretty much all ready to go (which is a lot for commitment-phobic moi), or at least close to it. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it._

* * *

..  
 _oversteps  
_..

* * *

"Colton would be here, but the quarterly meeting is keeping him too busy. He wants an update, though. A thorough one. I told him you would update him."

"Mm-hm." I try to do the noncommittal-but-supportive thing while I'm moving the wand over the expanse of her pregnant belly. "Eleanor, just hold still for one moment, please … there you go. Perfect."

Next to me, Derek is watching the screen intently while Eleanor drones on about her husband. I show him the issue – all I have to do is lift my chin; he knows what to look for, and he nods. Then he leans a little closer to ask me a question – it's a good one, of course, he's still Derek, and I'm in the middle of answering him when Eleanor pipes up.

"What are you two muttering about?"

 _Oh, if only you knew._

But out loud? "We're just discussing your treatment plan, Eleanor, for the babies," I tell her patiently.

"Well, I can hear it too, you know. I'm not an idiot. I did – "

I stop listening before she can tell me again that she graduated _magna_ from USC and I can dutifully pretend to be impressed.

"I'm filling Dr. Shepherd in on what you and I have discussed with Dr. Graves," and I remind her enough about the specifics to pacify her, at least for now.

Not that we know that much.

We do know that Baby C – the one with the cerebro-spinal malformation – is a triplet, which means there are two other babies sharing the womb. A and B, they're boys. They have their own placenta, of course, but I've studied enough cases of single-triplet fetal malformation to know it's not that simple. What happens to that little girl affects both the boys, too. Meanwhile, they're growing normally. Small, but normal. While she's a little time bomb who could tip everyone's balance.

It's not really fair … but that's just how it goes sometimes.

..

So you know how Eleanor Rivers is stuck in Trendelenburg and none too happy about it, and I'm not her favorite person? Well, she's actually been lying still since Derek worked his magic. She even stopped complaining.

On the other hand, she's still managed to mention Colton about sixty more times during the ultrasound.

 _Colton thinks …_

 _Colton wants to make sure …_

 _Colton said …_

I nod and smile while Baby C flickers on the screen.

The truth is, in all the time I've been treating Eleanor Rivers, I've only met the famous Colton once. He had a thick wedge of grey hair and eyelashes far too long for an adult male; he was wearing a four-thousand-dollar suit – not one I would have chosen – and he was on his blackberry the whole time.

So, yeah, I'm not unsympathetic.

I know why Eleanor is compelled to keep talking about him.

She's moved on now to discussing Colton's impending bonus and while I certainly wouldn't have done that – talking about money is _unseemly_ , don't you know? – I still get why his name has to be alive in this room. Because –

Ugh, now we've moved to his prowess at the gym. Derek catches my eye while I move the wand, and without saying anything I know we're both trying not to laugh.

It reminds me of a hundred other times where all we've needed is a quick glance and suddenly, everything is funny. Everything is okay.

That only lasts for a second, of course, and then I remember why it's not funny.

I remember why I get that Eleanor needs us to think he cares.

I've been there.

A couple of years ago I was supposed to be photographed out in the Hamptons for some magazine spread – one of those articles about how women can have it all and still find time to pay a killer landscaper and get a blowout. Whatever. You know, _girl power_ type stuff: you, too, can pretend your house always looks this good and that your work clothes never end up stained with other people's bodily fluids!

So that was the plan on my part.

And Derek, well, Derek was supposed to come join me at the house and be in the photograph too. Throw an arm over my shoulder or gaze at me on the lawn and let everyone who saw the spread see how handsome my husband was. How present. How in love we were.

… I bet you can tell where this is going.

So I'll skip to the end: he didn't show.

I did the shoot alone.

And I couldn't even be mad because it's not like he was drinking or playing pool or watching the Yankees. Not my husband. He was saving someone's life. And it didn't matter that he chose to take that surgery and it didn't matter that someone else could have done it.

I couldn't complain.

I couldn't compete.

And sure, the pictures turned out great. I wore that white dress with the thing on the waist and they even had a fan to make my hair look perfectly windblown. The lawn looked incredible, and the pool looked even better.

It was still just me, though.

When they ran the article they even stuck in a smaller picture of Derek and me together from some benefit. My outfit and hair made it clear it was taken more than a year before the rest of the shoot, but Derek was still there, technically. We were on the same page, standing next to each other, smiling.

Proof of life … or proof of marriage anyway.

And my husband did make it out to East Hampton the next day with a Barolo in his hand far too expensive for him to have picked it out himself, and I knew he hated shopping for wine even more than he hated shopping for shoes and I forgave him.

Of course I forgave him.

He told me later that same night, when we'd finished making up and I was lying sated in his arms – physically sated, anyway – that some of the guys at work were pushing him to bring me jewelry instead, or at least chocolate, but he knew I'd rather have wine.

I thought it was sweet, then, how well he knew me. I didn't think it was manipulative.

Now …? Now I don't know what to think.

Except that as Eleanor's voice starts telling us how excited Colton is to decorate the nursery, and her expression tells me that actually Colton says _sure, sounds good_ to all of her suggestions without looking up from his blackberry, she notices me looking at her.

It's just for a second, but I see it in her eyes.

Neither of us acknowledges it; I say something noncommittal like _oh, really? How great_ , and keep pressing the wand against her belly so I can see every centimeter of her triplets. And she blinks and keeps talking.

We both let it go – but I still know what it was. That flash in her eyes.

Because I remember that my chest would feel tight every time someone looked too closely at that photograph in _Hamptons Life_ , because I knew that they knew why I was sitting alone in an Adirondack chair next to that perfect blue pool.

They knew why the magazine ran that postage stamp picture from the benefit on the opposite page.

They knew Derek didn't show up for me.

And I don't care how fabulous my hair looked in that shot … they knew that I knew it too.

"Wait," Derek says suddenly – this Derek, _now_ Derek, his tone serious.

And then I remember where we are, and that it's not actually about me.

..

It's always awkward trying to talk about a patient when she's right there, without alarming her – especially when she's barely holding onto a high risk triplet pregnancy.

So even though I know Derek is trying to get a closer look on the screen, I'm doing my best to carry out the ultrasound like everything is still – not fine, of course, but the same as it was before.

Derek gestures with his chin toward the screen and I nod a little so he knows I get it, but he's impatient.

"Addison." He's describing a circle with two of his fingers, trying to get me to move the wand faster.

When I don't, he actually puts his hand over mine. Seriously? This is why I never let him finish teaching me how to drive stick.

"Do you mind?" I hiss.

"Would you just – move two millimeters transverse," he says, annoyed, but he does let go of me, and I direct the wand accordingly.

He's immersed in the screen.

"Increase the magnification," he instructs, and I do it instead of arguing that I'm not his freaking sonographer. I know Derek, he's not being patronizing on purpose, not really – he's just focused.

Very focused.

"Derek," and I keep my voice low but calm because I know Eleanor is watching us. "What is it?"

"Just give me a second," he mutters.

"What's going on up there?" Eleanor asks nervously. It's hard to take her seriously sometimes, in that awful tipped Trendelenburg position and with her proclivity for mindless chatter and taking her understandable hostility out on me – but right now, her voice is small, and she sounds like anyone would right now.

She sounds scared.

"Dr. Shepherd is just examining the babies, Eleanor," I tell her, in my most reassuring tone.

Eleanor actually glances over at Derek as if to say, _should I believe her?_

Girl power, indeed.

Derek backs me up, though, nodding at her. He's working the soft eyes, and Eleanor looks reassured.

Thank you, Derek, for the vote of confidence.

No, really, I do appreciate it. And Eleanor certainly does too.

Oh, wait – if you're wondering why Derek was touching Eleanor's face, a few minutes ago, when it's one of the triplets who has the CNS malformation?

It's because Eleanor is convinced she's having her own neurological crisis. It's somewhere between projection and the unfortunate consequences of her time in Trendelenburg. Walter Graves is businesslike, not indulgent, but he's always taken her complaints seriously. Trendelenburg is a bitch – there's a reason it's treatment of last resort these days, a little medieval for my tastes and prone to causing all sorts of unpleasant maternal side effects, including headaches. Sometimes severe ones, the kind that make you think you're going to stroke out … because you're a patient, not a doctor, and you don't actually know what that means.

But Trendelenburg, as uncomfortable as it is, is also still, in some cases – like Eleanor's – the best way to maintain a pregnancy when an incompetent cervix threatens to bring on early labor.

(Don't you just love how many women's health terms manage to point the blame? _Incompetent cervix._ Like they're just not working hard enough, or not smart enough.I wonder how many men get told at their annuals that they have _incompetent prostates._ )

Eleanor first presented with signs of early labor, that's all. A simple incompetent cervix. I'm the one who discovered the CNS malformation and got Graves involved.

(See – I do more than mope about my wrecked life and sleep with the wrong people. I actually have a job, too. And I'm pretty damned good at it, even when everything else in my life is falling apart.)

"Mrs. Rivers, thank you for being so patient," Derek is saying now, smiling down at her. He glances at me. "I hope you don't mind if I borrow Dr. … Montgomery Shepherd for a moment?"

That's not my name.

But I know he's placating the patient, who still thinks of me as Dr. Shepherd – or, more likely, _that bitch who gets to sit up whenever she wants and walk to the bathroom by herself._

Not that Eleanor is likely to mind my leaving; she still sees me as the architect of her misery.

Derek lifts his eyebrows when I'm still standing there. "Can I see you outside, please?" he asks pointedly, and I ring for a nurse to help get Eleanor settled.

..

"You think it's a VGM." I look at him. "Really?"

Derek nods. He's holding Eleanor's chart now.

"But I've been monitoring daily since – "

"A fetus changes every hour," he interrupts, in the patient tone of a professor. "Daily monitoring, even twice daily, gives us a snapshot. That's helpful, but now I need the panoramic. I need to put the pictures together."

Sounds good, right? Impressive?

Those are _my_ words. He knows that because of me.

"Derek – are you lecturing me on fetal development right now? Seriously?"

"No, of course not," he says quickly.

I sigh a little. "Look, we're aware of the CNS malformation, but it's been unspecified up to now. There's been no change since the fetal survey," I remind him. "We've been tracking the fundal height, and there's no sign of – "

"No change yet," he says.

"Excuse me?" I tilt my head to take it in. Derek's good, I know that, but even he doesn't usually use psychic powers to determine neurological conditions.

"No change _yet_ ," he repeats. "But that possible dilation at A2 – the one you didn't want to move the wand to show me – "

Ugh, of course he would say that.

" – I'd like to see it more closely." Then he nods as if a course has been determined. "Order a fetal MRI," he says.

"I'm not your resident," I remind him.

"Then have _your_ resident order a fetal MRI." Derek snaps Eleanor's chart closed, then glances at me. "How's Graves on endovascular?"

"He's on your team, wouldn't you know better than I would?"

"This is prenatal, Addison," he says, like I don't know that.

"I'm aware, Derek … but it's neurosurgical too."

"Just order the fetal MRI," he says, sounding resigned rather than annoyed, "or get Karev or whichever intern is getting intimidated on your service today to do it for you, and have the scans sent to me so I can review them."

"It's Walter's case," I remind him.

"Then we'll review them together." His tone is patient, like he has no idea how annoying he's being.

"Derek … what are you doing?"

"My job," he says immediately, looking a little confused.

"Actually, it's Walter's job."

" _Walter_ is in the OR." He pronounces the guy's name like he once did with Preston Burke, making sure I know he's not thrilled with the fact that I actually talk to people here. Sometimes.

"I know that."

"And it was my consult." He studies my face for a moment. "Do you disagree with my advice?" he asks. He sounds genuinely curious, just one professional seeking another professional's opinion.

"No," I admit.

It's not like I hadn't considered a vein of Galen malformation – they're rare, and potentially very serious, but I've been monitoring Baby C closely and she just hasn't been presenting that way. Triplets are fragile, exponentially so compared to a singleton, and more invasive testing hasn't been worth the risk.

But I don't actually disagree.

"I didn't think so." He pauses, clears his throat a little. "Addison. I was – wondering if I could speak with you."

"You just did."

He grimaces. "Speak to you about something else," he clarifies, looking over my shoulder.

"You'll have to wait a minute," I tell him, adopting my most deferential tone. "I need to order a fetal MRI for my attending."

My sarcasm isn't lost on him, at least.

..

But joke's on me, since once I've snagged a resident to get the order in and left no doubt as to its urgency, I'm left with Derek.

Derek, who wants to speak with me.

 _Great._

I smile weakly at him, hoping maybe he's changed his mind, but he just glances down the hall and then just gestures for me to follow him.

I do, trying not to feel like the Spider and the Fly – no way in hell am I going near a supply closet, I can tell you that – but all we do is turn the corner where there's the tiniest semblance of privacy.

I guess it will have to do.

Derek's voice is low when he starts talking. "Look, about last night …."

Oh _god_ , no conversation that opens that way has ever gone anywhere good. I just stand there with my listening face on hoping I don't look as uncomfortable as I feel. Maybe I'll get lucky and a meteor will hit Seattle Grace before I have to respond.

(A meteor can't be that much more unlikely than a live grenade in a patient's chest, can it?)

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry," he says.

Okay, that was a little unexpected.

Those words don't exactly come naturally to my husband.

(Ex-husband. _Ex._ I've got this.)

I mean, he did apologize last night. Twice, actually. Twice more than I ever expected him to.

But that was different. That was about the past, the nuclear explosion that was the end of our marriage.

This is about …

Well. I'm not sure what this is about.

"Sorry about what?" I ask when it doesn't look like he's going to clarify.

He blinks. "I'm sorry if I … overstepped, last night."

It's my turn to blink now. I'm processing his words.

Well, just one of the words: overstepped.

 _Overstepped_.

Seriously?

What, by showing up at my hotel room? Bringing back the rings, trying to figure out if I was committing suicide-by-gin, sticking around to make sure I didn't choke on my own vomit, sleeping over, _what_?

I mean … we were married for eleven years.

That's eleven years of birthdays and anniversaries and summer vacations and sitting across from each other in restaurants and sleeping side by side. Fine.

It's also eleven years of washing each other's underwear – or at least gathering it up for the maid to wash – and morning breath and getting naked in those married ways that have nothing to do with sex. I was there when Derek lost his first patient; I was the one who locked the call room door and cradled his head in my lap while he cried. I've held his hand when he left flowers on his father's grave, and he once stopped my mother from slapping me in the face and when I begged him never to bring it up again, he kept his word.

I even had to give him Reglan one time for an insane bout of gastro … and I don't mean orally.

Yeah, sorry for the image, but you get my point. I hope.

And if not, here's my point: what's _overstepped_ , when you met when you were twenty-two – babies, actual babies – and you were married for eleven years? What's _overstepped_ , for us?

I don't say all this to him.

Of course I don't.

I say, "it's fine," and give him a tight smile.

"Good." He pauses. "Are you … feeling better?"

I consider the question. The pain in my head has lessened to a dull ache. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to vomit anytime soon, at least not from my hangover.

Slowly, I nod.

"I was worried about you, Addison," he says, after a moment of silence.

His tone is quite a bit different from the one in the doorway of the hotel last night when he discovered me with Mark, laced with disgust, and said the same words: _I was worried about you, Addison. And here you are screwing him again._

"You said that last night," I remind him.

"I was worried about you last night."

For a moment we just look at each other. His gaze drops to my hands and I realize I'm unconsciously fingering the spot where my rings would be.

God, even my hands can't be on my side.

I shove one of my hands in the pocket of my lab coat. "Yeah, I got that. I'm, uh, I'm sorry I worried I you."

"You don't have to apologize." He pauses. "Should I be worried now?"

Good question. The thing is, I'm not sure. And I'm not being coy, I mean it.

I know I yelled at him last night that I never asked him to worry about me – and that's true insofar as we're talking post-divorce – but then I also know I kind of lost it on him right after that.

Literally … _on_ him.

My cheeks are warm at the memory, and I don't quite meet his eye.

"Addison."

He has his boy-scout face on, and I can tell he's having one of the Good Guy moments when he feels some obligation to me.

Obligation, like the reason he took me back – grudgingly – in the first place.

And I didn't want to believe that was all it was last night, but it wouldn't be the first time I gave Derek far too much benefit of the doubt.

Still, though …

"That was a lot to drink, even for you," he says.

"Yeah, well, it was a long day," I remind him.

"Yes. You mentioned that, earlier." He studies my face for a moment. "All your days are long," he adds, and I can't argue with that.

At least not while I'm living in Seattle.

(Well, "living.")

Now he's glancing at his blackberry. "Listen, Addison, if you need – "

Oh, god, I have to close my eyes again so he doesn't finish the sentence.

 _If you need anything._

One of the worst fights I can remember, back when we still bothered to fight, started with that line.

 _If I need anything? Really? Because you think if you say it that means you don't have to do anything, right? Like you've already done something. Points for Derek, all the points for Derek._

He yelled back, obviously, something about how I turned everything into a competition, I couldn't seem to remember we were supposed to be a team, a few more bullshit sports metaphors.

 _If I need anything, let's hope I have an aneurysm so you can spare ten minutes to look at me – why don't you just say it that way, since that's actually what you mean?_

He slammed the front door hard enough when he left to knock a frame off the occasional table.

You know what's funny? I remember the shattered frame as holding a wedding picture. I don't think it actually did, but symbolically it might as well have, you know what I mean?

I had the frame repaired, of course, the picture set behind new glass, and we never brought it up again. I never asked him if he noticed what he'd left in his wake and I never told him what I had to do to fix it.

We just added it to the list of things we didn't talk about.

And when his eyes flicker to my left hand again, I realize we're still adding to the list.

 _He brought me back the rings._

Why?

I don't ask him. Of course I don't.

And back here, in the unfortunate Seattle present, Derek's sentence is still half-finished.

 _Listen, Addison, if you need –_

And he doesn't finish it.

Which is good, because I don't want to answer it.

Because _I need_.

I do.

I need so badly, right now, that it scares me.

So I do what I always do when I'm scared. And it hasn't failed me yet.

(Right? That's why my life is so fantastic right now. So top-notch, not at all depressing, just how I always dreamed.)

I lie.

"I'm fine, Derek," I tell him, "really. You shouldn't worry about me."

It's just a half-lie, though.

Because the truth?

The truth, I realize now, is that even if I'm not fine, he should still stop worrying about me.

Because his worrying about me hurts. I think it hurts even more than his _not_ worrying about me … and I'm tired of hurting. I'm tired of being sad.

"Okay," he says.

He actually looks a little sad, believe it or not.

"Okay," I repeat. My throat is aching. I don't understand how so many conversations we have can sound just like _goodbye_ when we never even use that word. Can hurt exactly the same way.

I just know they do.

But all I do is smile, as much as I can, and wait for him to leave … except he doesn't.

For the second time in twelve hours – he surprises me by staying put.

He says my name, quietly, and there's nothing I can do except hold on in case he's planning to surprise me one more time.

"You brought me back the rings," I blurt before he can say anything else.

… nothing except that, anyway.

Okay, so I surprised _myself_ this time. But actually, Derek looks even more surprised than I feel.

I guess I'm not the only one who thought we'd never bring it up again.

* * *

 _To be continued, of course. Very soon, assuming I stay this inspired. Help me out? Thank you, as always, for reading, and I hope you'll let me know what you think._


	21. shadows

_**A/N:** Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter. This story is a departure for me in a lot of ways, but also really gets into some of the things I find so fascinating about Addison. And if any of you have read Accidental Babies (one of my first stories, and one of my favorites), you know that Addison's abortion and the circumstances surrounding it have always really interested me. Thank you for reading as fast as I can write and I will keep trying to write as fast as you can read._

* * *

..  
 _shadows  
_..

* * *

 _You brought me back the rings._

For a moment after I say the words, we just look at each other.

Surprised.

Because I've broken our unspoken promise not to talk about it.

The one we used to have for a lot of things.

… I guess fidelity isn't the only broken vow.

In the meantime a cluster of residents passes us by, then two nurses pass, and then an attending I don't recognize giving orders to an intern, a few words of conversation wafting toward us each time.

Even though our silence is louder than the chatter around us, I'm reminded that we're still standing in the hallway in open view.

It should be strange, having this private conversation in public.

But in a lot of ways … we've lived out our whole relationship in public.

The first time Derek asked me out was in a crowded anatomy lab, shoulder to shoulder with other medical students.

He proposed to me while we were skating in Central Park – don't judge him too hard, we were so young and I thought it was _romantic_. Deeply, un-ironically romantic. Everyone clapped when I said yes and a bunch of tourists snapped pictures and I felt like a pink-cheeked princess instead of a shivering intern on her first day off in three weeks. I can still hear the sound of that applause – weirdly muffled by gloves and mittens, like it was coming from underwater, while Derek and I grinned at each other like idiots who'd just agreed to do something we had no freaking clue how to do.

But we did it. We got married and by then were busy residents who didn't have time for a real honeymoon, so we swapped shifts until we could find a three-day weekend to spend at Bizzy's country house – and then Archer crashed the second day with not one but _two_ blondes.

And then, of course, there's Mark. He was with us from the beginning, whistling that first _morning after_ in lab, basically being the semi-acknowledged third piece of _AddisonAndDerek_.

I guess, come to think of it, Mark was the _and_ between Derek and me.

Last but not least, of course, the public Shepherds, Seattle-style: our last voluble marital fight standing on the catwalk in front of half the hospital, and Derek's final, spectacular arrow in the heart of our marriage at that ridiculous prom.

So … yeah.

Privacy is relative when you're a Shepherd.

(Which I'm not anymore, legally speaking. But you understand.)

Now Derek opens his mouth and I swear I think if he says _I was worried about you_ one more time I'm going to slap him again and let Richard suspend me once and for all.

He doesn't.

"You looked upset," he says finally.

He doesn't have to say _when I took the rings off you_ or _when I dismissed you in front of Meredith so I could go back to flirting and forget you ever existed._

I would normally make some crack back at him, to prove how not-upset I was, but that's a little harder when I ended that night making it humiliatingly obvious that _upset_ was an understatement.

"Maybe I looked upset," I concede, "but it wasn't because of the rings."

There you go. A half-truth for Derek the Optimist, and a half-lie for Addison the Pessimist. Marriage is compromise, isn't it? It's a give and take.

Even after it ends, I guess.

Now I have to force myself not to let my hands touch, not to toy with the empty space on my fourth finger like Pavlov's freaking dog.

"Addison." He waits for me to look at him again. There are shadows under his eyes and I remember that he was the one drinking too much before I was. That he was the one we were worried about, the night before. "I can appreciate that … this has been difficult," he says.

It's so _Derek_ of him, about three layers removed from personal. Insulated from responsibility. And what's _this_ , anyway? My day? My week? My divorce?

My answer's the same either way, I suppose.

"For me, you mean." I look at him. "Difficult for me. It was easy for you."

"That's not what I said."

"It's not what you said … but it's what you meant."

"Addison." He shakes his head. "Why don't you let me decide what I mean?"

Um, because that would require him to _know_ what he means?

I don't say it out loud, of course.

"You have what you wanted," I remind him.

Because it's true: I may have the rings, but he has the divorce.

He's looking at me. The set of his jaw tells me he's tired. I remember that I'm not the only one who had a long day yesterday.

Or a long night.

I know I should let it go. This should be goodbye. The consult is done, we've now had two awkward run-ins about last night – fine.

We're not fighting, he doesn't sound angry or resentful, we've managed to make a conversation about two rings more complicated than the one we had about fetal cerebral vein malformations.

But god, it's hard. I mean, come on, if anything is clear it's that I can't seem to cut the cord.

I was _going_ to cut the cord.

I was! I planned to, really. You remember that.

After the supply closet, after the things he said, after Richard's office and that crazy standoff in the scrub room – I really was.

I said it, too: _You know what, Derek? Here's a little incentive for both of us. Once the procedure is done, I'll get out of your life just like you asked me to … and then you can stay the hell out of mine._

But then the hotel happened. And he apologized. And he _listened_ to me, just me, like he used to. He heard me.

And it's not fair, it's really not. I know I keep saying it, but that's because it's true.

 _What do you want from me, Addison?_

I used to get that a lot. It was my job to tell him, in the last couple years of our marriage, and somehow he never noticed the problem: that in the years before that … he never had to ask.

And I know I'm part of the problem too.

Because the answer to _what does Addison want from Derek_ is, pretty much universally, somewhere between _I don't know_ and _everything_.

And I also know what I'm supposed to do now.

Drop the issue.

Punt, change the subject, spar a little or default to medicine or do anything but try to get him to answer me about what he did.

But …

"The rings, Derek. You left the rings," I say instead.

It's unprecedented; something flickers in his eyes, like he's finally remembering.

"They're yours," he says simply.

It's true, I suppose.

In addition to writing off everything else about our life together, Derek mentioned that morning with the divorce lawyers that I could keep all my jewelry.

I smirked at the time, even though it took work, after listening to him write me off one more time: _Good idea, I'm not sure if you could really pull off diamonds._

So legally, yes, the rings are mine.

"But I gave them back to you," I remind him.

"And I gave them back to you," he says, "after that."

Okay, I don't know why I thought this post-divorce version of Hot Potato would be more effective than letting the subject drop.

"You left them on a towel," I say instead, switching it up a little – I'm half expecting him to respond, _you_ left them on a towel.

He just looks at me for a long moment.

"A washcloth," he says finally.

"Huh?"

"It was a washcloth. Smaller than a towel."

I blink. Actually … he's right.

"Okay, a washcloth. Why did you leave them on a washcloth?"

"Because otherwise they'd end up camouflaged on the counter," he says, and his mouth does that twitching thing where if you spend enough time looking at his face you know he's about to smile.

 _Camouflaged on the counter._ That's my line; he used to tease me about it.

"You actually believe that?" I ask him.

"I do," he says.

His word choice is just a tad uncomfortable in the moment. _Do you, Derek Christopher Shepherd, take this woman …_

Etcetera, etcetera.

Neither of us speaks for a few breaths.

It reminds me of that quick second in Eleanor's room where we were both hiding laughter. I don't think I want to smile, or laugh, or remember. Because it hurts.

And then Derek glances down at my bare left hand again. He doesn't say anything; I answer him anyway.

"It was muscle memory," I say quickly. "I was tired, yesterday morning, when I put them on, and it was automatic. I wasn't trying to – start anything."

Derek's expression makes me think he knows, just like I do, that something has started just the same.

But not when I put the rings on.

Before that.

When I walked out of Hannah Fowler's room and he followed me into the supply closet and what was left of civil-and-mature-divorced-adults shattered loud enough to wound.

"Muscle memory," Derek repeats, apparently focused on the first part of what I said. "Like last night, you mean?"

It's his turn to _just say it_ , I suppose. With those words, I have a quick awful flashback to pushing myself on him, not once but twice, and I was drunk and it was dark and the snatches of recollection taste like gin. His hands are around my arms, warmer than my skin, his body is hard and familiar under mine, and he's talking to me, _you don't want to do this._ He's pushing me off him again and I finally give up but he holds onto me. _You don't have to get up just because we're not going to have sex._ And I didn't get up, and neither did he.

We held onto each other.

I have to squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.

The memory is humiliating and I'm filled with loathing at how needy I was, how pathetic, but when I open my eyes his expression is – well, it's kind of intense, but it's not mocking.

What am I supposed to say to him?

 _Last night was the worst kind of muscle memory. The kind that remembers something I'll never have again._

I look at him looking at me and I'm distracted by his shoulder. His right shoulder, to be exact, because I have a really embarrassing urge to just take a couple of steps forward – well, one and a half would do it, we're standing pretty close and I have a long stride – and rest my head on it.

Muscle memory is dangerous. _Wanting_ things is dangerous, needing them, because it just makes you want more. Need more.

I have to distract myself so I don't think about how I know exactly how the fabric of his lab coat would feel if I rested my cheek against it right now.

I just take the coward's way out and say nothing at all, and Derek does a sort of a half-nod, although I'm not sure what he's agreeing with, and starts to walk away.

"Derek – "

He turns around.

"Did you mean it?" I ask, feeling daring all of a sudden.

I don't clarify what _it_ refers to. I don't ask specifics: if he meant the terrible things he said to me in the supply closet, or the much less terrible things he said last night, or the things he _did_ last night. I don't even clarify whether I'm talking about words or actions or … something else entirely.

 _Did you mean it_? That's the whole question.

He doesn't ask for more information.

And I don't offer it.

I'm not sure I could clarify, if he asked. Did he mean … what? I don't know.

Maybe last night. Maybe the days that led up to it.

Maybe Seattle, maybe New York.

Maybe the last terrible half a year.

Maybe the eleven years before that.

My question hangs in the air a little while longer before he answers.

 _Did you mean it?_

"Yes," he says, finally.

Just one word: _yes._

I guess I should have predicted that.

Because Derek always means it.

I open my mouth to say something. I don't know what – half of me wants to tell him it hurts too much to talk to him and the other half wants to beg him to stay. I figure there's at least an outside chance if I just crossed that space between us he'd put his arms around me again. Except to make that happen, I'd have to acknowledge that I wanted it.

It's not fair.

But before I can decide what to say, we're interrupted by a voice behind us.

"Dr. Shepherd?"

We turn in tandem, saying that same word in unison this time: "Yes?"

(We are really going to have to stop doing that at some point, but at least Derek looks as uncomfortable as I feel.)

The resident turns to me. "Eleanor Rivers is asking for you, Dr. Shepherd."

..

I leave the other Dr. Shepherd – the only one, really, at this hospital, but I can't seem to shake the name – in the hall that's apparently become our new ex-marital-counseling spot, and go back to Eleanor's room.

Eleanor, naturally, is very grateful that I'm willing to drop everything to come talk to her. Appreciative.

"Took you long enough," she snaps when I walk in. "I hope I didn't interrupt your coffee break."

… or not. Anyway, I let her hostility blow past me because it's painfully obvious she's just worried about the fetal MRI, and then I take some time to explain every step to her. She gets different laymen's terms than Hannah did – the kind that I know Eleanor would want, the _magna_ -from-USC kind.

Not that it makes her like me anymore, but the fact is, I have four patients in that room: Eleanor Rivers, who is certainly not my biggest fan, Baby C with her unspecified CNS defect, and Babies A & B, curled into each other and waiting to see what happens.

And only one of those four patients hates me. 25% hatred level? That's way, _way_ better than the general population of Seattle Grace as far as I can tell, so I'll take it.

"Do you have any questions about what I've told you so far?" I ask her.

"No. But Colton will want to know more details," Eleanor says.

She's staring just over my shoulder now in what seems like a deliberate attempt to avoid my gaze, unless she really wants to get a closer look at that reprint of a reprint of a generic Matisse hanging about two centimeters off center on the wall.

"Of course," I tell her. "We'll explain everything again when he's here, or we can set up a call if he's not able to – "

"He can come," she says. "He will. He comes a lot, you know. Here. When you're not here. It's not like you're here all the time."

"No," I tell her, "I do have other patients, but you can always ask for me and someone will page me. If it's possible, I'll do my best to be here."

Her eyes look shiny.

"I know it's scary right now, but – "

"I'm not scared," she says immediately, but her eyes are threatening to spill over, and if you've never seen anyone cry at a downward tilt … it's not particularly comfortable.

"Eleanor," I say gently. "The fetal MRI is going to give us more information. This is a good thing."

"What's good about it?"

"More information is good." Her hand is kind of rooting blindly around the side of the bed now and I decide to risk getting scratched by her nails and reach for it.

What's the worst she can do, draw a little blood? I signed on for that.

She doesn't, though.

She hangs onto my hand, with a pretty strong grip for someone who's been on bed rest for far longer than she'd like to be.

And I keep talking. "With more information, we may have more options to help your babies. Better options."

She doesn't say anything, but she's not letting go either.

I know what it's like to need a lifeline.

I'm also not going to let her _know_ I know, so instead of making it obvious that I'm trying to support her – hostility, knocking the chart out of my hand, basically telling me I was useless in front of Derek, all of that aside – I just busy myself checking her fluid outputs with my free hand and pretending to be very interested in her answers to my inane and relatively benign doctor-patient questions.

I'm busy. That's an understatement. I could get paged. There could be an emergency.

Barring that … I'm going to hold on a little longer.

It's quiet in her room, just the hum of the maligned HVAC and the sporadic monitor beeps. It smells like lemon cleanser and Betadine and that particular cloying odor the meal trays get. And it's not particularly comfortable to let her death-grip my hand and still manage to pretend I'm examining her – my shoulder is already protesting.

I stay anyway, until the resident comes back to take her for the fetal MRI and she snatches her hand away from mine like she's been burned.

I let her have her moment: I walk past the nonexistent shadow of her missing husband and try not to think too much about the shadow of my own husband – _ex-_ husband; whatever he is, he's present.

He's present enough that I need a drink, but I'm not so far gone that I'm ready to start drinking at work.

Plus, I may not be actively hungover anymore, but I don't feel a hundred percent either.

..

Coffee it is, and I'm only halfway to the carafe when I hear the door to the thankfully empty lounge bang open behind me and then a shadow is darkening the linoleum under my feet.

"Dr. Montgomery!"

(Like that, with an exclamation point.)

When I turn around, I see Alex Karev, and it looks like my fabulous blouse hasn't escaped his attention – he's only human, and barely post-pubescent, so I can't really judge. He manages to refocus pretty quickly.

"You're not supposed to be in here," I remind him.

"I saw you go in," he says. "I heard one of the Rivers triplets might have a VGM." He's a little breathless like he's just run from somewhere.

"Are you stalking my patients, Karev? Or just stalking me?"

"You wish," he says, but somehow he manages to keep it just this side of disrespectful, almost – admiring, and I let it slide. "I just thought you might need an intern."

"No one _needs_ interns," I remind him. "Interns are like embryos: an undeveloped stage on the way to an actually useful phase of life."

"But you do need embryos," he says, and has the nerve to grin at me, "or no fetuses, and no people. So I guess that means interns are pretty useful too."

I let him have the point. He looks so happy about it, and frankly, it's nice to see someone happy, even if it's just for a minute, and even if they got there by trying to best me.

"The Rivers triplets," he repeats, apparently moving on. "If the girl one – "

I wince at his not so scientific terminology. "Baby C," I correct him.

"If Baby C needs surgery, can I assist?"

I study his face. He looks altogether too eager.

"Karev, it's one thing to want to learn, but surely you're aware that the better outcome is for Baby C _not_ to need surgery?"

"But if she does need it, and the surgery helps her, that's not exactly terrible," he counters.

"Look." I find myself softening a little. "We won't know more until the fetal MRI comes back. We'll review the results with Neuro and see where we are."

" _We_ ," he says, "so that means I can assist?" His eyes brighten visibly.

"Glad to see you're paying attention."

"If it is a VGM," he says thoughtfully, "will you go ex utero or can it wait until parity?"

I guess he's been doing his homework. In spite of myself … I'm a little impressed.

"That depends. The triplets are at twenty-nine weeks' gestation tomorrow," I tell him.

 _Twenty-nine weeks._

The air in the room shifts when I say the number, and we both pause and sort of … take it in.

Eleanor's triplets are practically at twenty-nine weeks already.

Karev looks a little pensive, less eager, now.

I'm pretty sure he's thinking that that's only six weeks further in gestation than his tiny tragic namesake. _Alexander Tad_ , defender of men, who never had to learn how lousy life outside the womb can be. He's getting a little lost in what we did, even if it was what we had to do. Even if it was the right decision at the time.

But I'm not.

And it's not because of how seriously I take my role as an abortion provider. It's not because I've had to face down all kinds of protesters: the ones who scream in your face and the ones who just look at you with judgment in their eyes.

It's because twenty-nine weeks is where I would be right now, if I had kept the baby.

A wave of nausea that has nothing to do with the hangover sweeps over me and I have one last flash of self-preservation – _come on, Addie, don't embarrass yourself again, not after last night_ – that doesn't quite work.

 _Addison, how are you feeling? Are you ready to get started?_

That day … it was like I'd switched parts accidentally, woken up in the wrong body.

 _You're going to feel a little pressure._

I wasn't supposed to be the one flat on my back in the stirrups, staring up at the ceiling.

But I was.

 _I'm going to use the cannula to gently remove the tissue from the uterus._

I'd said those same words myself, so many times.

I was someone else, because that's the only way to explain the fear that made the back of my throat go numb. My lips were tingling from the local and it made it feel like I was drunk, thick-tongued and tipsy.

I remember that it was louder than I expected.

Even though it's minor.

It's a minor procedure.

A few minutes of suction, a speculum, a little dilation and anesthesia and _gently remove the tissue_ and that's it. You're fine. You can take your shaking legs out of the stirrups and, depending on who you are, you can either sit in recovery drinking a carton of apple juice and trying not to make eye contact with the other women while an overworked nurse monitors all of you at once, or – if you're more like me – you get a bubble of privacy and crisply laundered sheets and staff paid enough never to tell your secrets.

But whoever they are, we tell all our patients what to expect.

 _Irregular bleeding … cramps … emotional reactions._

Just minor things.

 _It's normal. Whatever you feel is normal._

I don't feel normal right now. I feel the ghost of something inside me. A twenty-nine-week-old ghost.

A shadow of someone missing, like Eleanor's infamous husband.

Like my own.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

Karev looks – concerned, and that is so _very_ much not okay.

I'm done embarrassing myself and I'm tired of being tired so I raise my eyebrows at him and make sure to adopt the posture that earned me the just-a-touch-sexist Dr. Icicle nickname when I was Chief Resident.

"Dr. Karev." I pause to make sure my tone is registering. "Though I understand you're eager to perform an incredibly risky procedure, as the sign suggests, this is the _attendings' lounge_." I gesture for emphasis. "It's where the grownups go to get _away_ from the interns, not to give them remedial lessons in fetal malformations."

"I was just asking about – "

"Well, don't ask," I snap. "Find something useful to do, or go tell Dr. Bailey your workload is too light and you'd like to be assigned a few bowel impactions. Either way, move on and find another doctor to bother."

There's a flash in his dark eyes that's almost like hurt, but he turns around and leaves, and I'm alone again.

You know, I stopped spotting ten days after the termination.

But sometimes … I think I'm still bleeding.

* * *

 _To be continued. There's a lot going on for Addison, as you know. A lot of it is internal, some of it is external, and we knew we hadn't seen the last of her own abortion. I know one of the things that fascinated me when the abortion reveal happened on the show was realizing that Addison's entire time at SGH up to that point would have been the duration of her pregnancy. As for Addison and Derek? They make me crazy. But I have faith in them._

 _Thank you for reading - please review and keep me on track to update asap!_


	22. worms

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews on the last chapter, and for continuing to read and comment on this story. It's picking up speed here behind the scenes, and you can expect updates to keep coming so long as you're still into reading.**

* * *

..  
 _worms  
_..

* * *

I stay in the lounge after Karev leaves, drinking my coffee and ignoring the ticking clock on the wall that sounds uncomfortably like a heartbeat.

I linger a little longer in the lounge than I need to. I guess an embarrassing part of me is hoping Callie will stop in. And I know that sounds ridiculous because sure, I'm lonely, but Karev was in here and I could have talked to him – instead of snapping at him and making fairly certain he's going to end up on the list of aborted friendships here in Seattle.

No pun intended.

Now Karev can be certain I'm a bitch and stop angling for my surgeries – he won't, because under his incredibly annoying exterior he actually wants to learn. But at least he won't want to _bond._

(Unfair? When I'm the one who kissed him first? Sure. But no one can prove that. And for someone who makes most of her major mistakes in public – that's saying something.)

But Callie's working – as I am too, even if I'm pontificating at the same time – and Karev left on my orders.

So I'm alone.

Back to having long conversations inside my head because no one here is exactly jumping all over themselves to talk to me.

(Mark trying to jump all over me, for reasons that have nothing to do with talking … that doesn't count.)

God, Seattle is lonely. I know that's an understatement. But until you experience it, I'm not sure you can actually know what it feels like to be the subject of stares and whispers and _pity_ even though no one actually talks to you.

When I finally leave the lounge and walk down the hall, plenty of people look at me.

But I'm pretty sure no one sees me.

..

"You wanted to see me, Richard?"

"Come in." He nods expansively. I hover in the doorway anyway; this office hasn't exactly been my favorite spot lately and I'm not quite sure what the chief wants.

"I wanted to see how you're doing," he says neutrally.

I could say, _lousy._ I could say, _I'm not going to answer, because even though you have your Kindly Old Man smile on … I've seen you work a chess board and I don't feel like being a pawn today._

"Fine," I tell him politely. "How are you doing, Richard?"

"Addie." He gestures to the chair in front of his desk. "Please come in and sit down."

So it's going to be this kind of conversation.

I do it. He's my boss, after all.

"You did a good job with the Fowler case," he says once I'm seated, legs crossed – as a lady always sits, at least if she doesn't want her legs whacked with a handbag.

"Thank you."

"I know it wasn't easy."

I'm not sure how to answer that. I suppose he does know it wasn't easy.

But he doesn't know why.

He just leans back a little in his chair, steepling his fingers. I'm getting hard core professor vibes from him now. He's going to give me some sage advice and I'm going to have to pretend I'll apply it to my sad excuse for a life here in Seattle.

Great.

I just wait.

"This job is a stressful one, Addie," he says finally. "I don't have to tell you that."

No, he doesn't, but I nod politely anyway.

"And when you mix in … personal politics …."

Okay, that's a new euphemism for _working with the perfect husband you cheated on and the manwhore you used to cheat too_ , but I can't really argue with the general direction of this.

"I'm aware this has been a challenging time for you," he says, eye contact fixed firmly away from me.

The words are similar enough to Derek's _I can appreciate that this has been difficult for you_ that it makes me a little chilled. Coincidence, I hope. Not, god forbid, Derek and Richard talking about me. I turn automatically to the other guest chair. I don't know what I'm looking for – an ass print? I just want to know that Derek wasn't sitting here before me, with the chief.

"Derek," Richard says.

"What?" Now I'm spinning to face the door. If Richard invited him here, I swear …

"I asked what's happening between you and Derek," Richard repeats patiently.

"Oh. Nothing," I say immediately.

Hopefully not too immediately.

"Nothing." He raises his eyebrows. " _Nothing_ doesn't usually lead to one of my top surgeons – and one of my favorite people – committing spousal battery in my office."

"We're divorced now," I remind him, hoping I don't sound too defensive. "So it's just regular battery." I manage a weak smile at my own joke.

Richard looks at me over his glasses for a moment. " _Spousal_ is less of an issue than battery here, I would say."

Fine, but it's a little tricky to separate in our case.

What am I supposed to say to him?

I consider my options.

 _I've done worse._ It's true. I once pulled out an actual handful of Derek's hair – which has got to be a felony in some states, at least ones that appreciate a good head of hair. Okay, it wasn't really my fault, he was halfway down the bed at the time trying something with a half-melted ice cube and I don't know which one of us ended up screaming louder. And once we'd both recovered and I had massaged the feeling back into his scalp and his eyes stopped watering, I did apologize – but he was more flattered than hurt.

Yeah, I know that's not really on point.

And slapping Derek in the face in Richard's office? I also know that's definitely not my finest moment.

But it doesn't even make the top three when I think about the other ways I've hurt him.

The ones people know about … and the ones they don't.

The ones that don't leave marks.

"Addison." Richard looks at me over the top of his glasses. "I need my top surgeons to be able to work together."

"We can."

Do I sound convincing?

I keep going, figuring I'll hit _convincing_ sometime soon.

"I'm sorry we involved you, Richard," I tell him, aware that I'm using _we_ for _AddisonandDerek_ , even though I know I shouldn't. "But the issue is closed. The case is finished, the patient received the services she needed. I'm satisfied."

 _Satisfied_ is the last thing I am, under any definition of the word, but Richard doesn't need to know that.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. And if you need anyone to talk to – "

 _It won't be you._

" – you know where to find me."

"Thank you, Richard."

I know he's watching me leave his office.

And not the way Mark does, just to be clear. Still.

It gives me the impression he knows more than he should.

..

I don't have much time to wonder about Richard. I'm still waiting for the results of Eleanor's fetal MRI when I end up getting pulled into a consult that's going to turn into a case that's going to stretch out the back end of my schedule.

No problem, not like I actually have anywhere to be.

Not like I actually want to be left alone with my thoughts so my mind can obsessively revisit the conversation with Derek outside Eleanor's room.

One word of that conversation in particular.

 _Yes._

Yes, he said, when I asked if he meant it.

Okay. But. Yes, he meant … what?

Everything? All of it?

See, this is not productive. This is why I'd rather work.

But planning to work past the end of my shift is also a problem.

It reminds me that _the problem_ is more than not having anywhere to be, after work.

I also don't have anyone to tell where I … be.

It's one of the many strange things about divorce I'm just learning now.

On top of everything else – the pain and the embarrassment and the shame and the endless logistics and making not one but two trips to the DMV – I've lost the main marker of my days.

I don't have to tell anyone when I'm coming home.

(I also don't have a _home_ , to be clear, but that's a separate issue. I think.)

I mean, not that Derek was exactly holding his breath for my updates, toward the end – and certainly not here in Seattle – but I still kept up the pretense.

(Of course I kept up the pretense; I'm a Montgomery. _Pretense_ is my middle name. Or one of them, anyway.)

Maybe in New York he'd stopped noticing me and maybe in Seattle he'd just given up entirely, but I still kept him posted. I still acted like he was waiting for me.

I can't do that anymore.

Here, now? Post-divorce?

No one is waiting for me.

(And Mark doesn't count. He's not waiting for _me_ , he's waiting for one specific part of me. Maybe two. Fine, _maybe_ three, but only if I'm really drunk.)

So, yeah. I'm kind of lost.

I was married for eleven years, with Derek for five years before that. I haven't been single for more than sixteen years. Sixteen years! My inability to be alone could be a fucking debutante, that's how old it is.

And it's a hard habit to break.

Very hard.

In New York, when I lived with Mark – well, _lived with_ is a prettying it up quite a bit, making it far too delicate, the equivalent of saying that at Richard's stupid hospital prom, Derek and Meredith _exchanged telephone numbers._

So, when Mark and I were whatever-we-were, I was still sort of living in the rhythms of marriage. Half and half. Half of me was still leaving messages on Derek's answering service and the other half of me was texting Mark to say when I'd be off work even though he never asked and didn't particularly seem to care.

I had to tell someone. It's habit.

You know … good old muscle memory.

So I shopped for groceries in Mark's kitchen. I found lingerie I'd never buy in the bed we were sharing, but I still kept his cabinets stocked with the espresso beans I liked. Fresh fruit on the counter, cream in the fridge for his coffee – but never mine – paper towels for the weird little magnetic silver thing I never would have chosen.

Fine, I never went into an actual _store_ , but I was the one who placed the FreshLocal orders, and I was the one who left a tip with the doorman for the delivery guy. In my world, that's June Fucking Cleaver.

My point is, Mark never asked me to do any of those things. He thanked me once in a while, sometimes even verbally, and he certainly never complained that I remembered he only liked granny smith apples, nothing sweet, and that his preferred brand of organic half-and-half was the one with the rosy-cheeked girl on the carton, not the one with the smiling cow.

(Big shock there, Mark Sloan preferring to look at a pretty face. Even if it's a cartoon milkmaid in a pink-flowered bonnet. It's more of a surprise he never tried to sleep with her.)

And I don't know why I did it. We never cooked in his apartment anyway – the idea of it is laughable – and takeout bags have their own plastic silverware and chopsticks. I didn't need to do it. I just – did it, because I was used to doing it.

 _I'll be home by nine_. It was habit.

Okay, fine, toward the end of those two months it was also a warning to get whoever was warming the bed in my absence out of there so I didn't have to have any awkward run-ins in the elevator.

Any _more_ awkward run-ins in the elevator.

… God, those two months are embarrassing.

Even by my newly honed adulterous-bitch standards.

You think it was embarrassing chasing Derek around the hospital begging for him to pay attention to me? Or losing my shit on him in front of half the hospital, including the intern he couldn't admit he was still having an emotional affair with? Or knowing every single person at Richard's prom knew what Derek was doing with doing with Meredith in that exam room half a hallway away from me while I stood there like an imbecile with a cup of punch, waiting for him to come back and finish our dance?

It was. They were.

All of those things were embarrassing. Were … and are now, too, when I remember them.

But calling Mark to tell him I was getting in a cab, pretending it was so he wouldn't worry about my taking the subway or so that he could pour me a glass of wine, and _not_ so that he could shower off whoever he slept with that day – yeah.

That's a little rough. Even for me.

That might take some time to get over.

Mark and I weren't married. We weren't anything, no matter how many times I updated him with my ETAs or put grapes in his crisper drawer or even poured his morning coffee.

But I _was_ married, those two months. I was still married to Derek. I was sleeping with Mark, and Derek was sleeping with Meredith, and Mark was sleeping with half of Manhattan. And I was wearing my wedding rings.

And now?

Now I'm living in Seattle. I'm divorced from Derek. I'm not sleeping with Mark – not anymore, this week. Derek, well, it seems like he's not sleeping with Meredith either, not anymore. Mark is now sleeping with half of Seattle instead – very consistent guy, Mark Sloan: same MO, different time zone. And I'm not wearing my wedding rings.

Except I was wearing them yesterday.

And this morning, I woke up in bed with Derek.

Fully clothed, with a couple of shreds of dignity left, but still.

In bed.

With Derek.

And the rings I'm not wearing were sitting on a washcloth for all the world like I'm the _Dr. Shepherd_ half the hospital still calls me.

Is it any wonder I'm confused? That maybe a little part of me can't seem to remember we're _not_ still married?

Derek might ignore me, he might even hate me, but hell, that's not so different from 2004, and we were still living together then, in the brownstone, and Mark had never seen me naked.

So, yeah.

Confusing.

And I don't know what to do about it, not really.

The thing is, I had a plan. It was to keep my distance, and keep my dignity. Derek told me he never wanted to see me again, I went back to the hotel and knocked on Mark's door and pretended I didn't feel like someone had just pushed me off a cliff. Like that last moment in a dream where you feel like you're falling until you jerk awake, terrified for no reason.

 _At least now you don't have to feel guilty anymore._

That feeling.

But then Hannah Fowler happened. That supply closet I can still smell if I close my eyes, where I wrong-footed him and then he tore me apart.

And everything else after that.

I'm not saying it's not on me. I know I opened a can of worms telling Derek about my abortion that day.

And now … they're everywhere.

..

"Dr. Shepherd?"

"It's actually Montgomery now," I say. Practicing.

If I opened a can of worms, then there's only one solution I can think of, and it's to – grab those worms and stuff them back in.

"Oh!" It's a blushing intern whose name I can't remember, with an overlong braid down her back. "Sorry, Dr. Sh – I mean, Dr. Montgomery."

"It's fine. What do you need?"

"Dr. Goldberg wanted me to let you know that there was a delay with the fetal MRI."

"What kind of a delay?"

"A backup," she says.

God, interns are frustrating. It takes some tooth-pulling to get useful information out of her.

"And she said to tell you Dr. Russo is going to read it as soon as they're finished," she adds, a little breathless.

Russo – the head of radiology. Interesting.

I dismiss the intern and focus on Eleanor for a minute. Russo will read the MRI, and if I know Derek then he and Graves will look at it together. But Derek was a consult in a pinch, that's all, so it will be Graves who contacts me so we can look at the scans together and make a decision.

Derek will sign off on the chart and hand it back and then he'll be done with the case.

More worms back in the can.

… okay, metaphor officially dead. Fine.

But the point is: I think I need distance.

No more consults, no more rings … and definitely no more hotel rooms.

Because we're not married, Derek and I. We're divorced, and I have to stop spending any more time with him than I need to. No more circular conversations that leave me raw and confused and definitely no more sharing space in that way that makes my whole body tense with regret and – stop reading if you don't want to hear this, because I'm not proud of it – longing.

Distance. I need distance.

At least until I figure things out.

Okay, then.

I breathe on it: inhale, exhale, and other than the hollow pit inside my stomach, I feel something like … pride, at this decision. Maybe? Mixed with surprise, I suppose.

Can you imagine? Addison Shepherd – _Montgomery_ , sorry – making a good decision? A healthy one? A mature one?

(I'm not offended. I certainly know my track record.)

But this is actually a healthy decision. It is.

I'm making the decision sober, too, and I'm starting to feel almost _good_ about it.

Like maybe it's the start of something.

Like maybe things might turn around for me if I can take some control.

So.

It probably won't surprise you that of course … this is the exact moment Eleanor Rivers decides to have me paged.

For two reasons, as I learn when I get to her room.

The first: to complain that the temperature is too warm in her room. I refrain from informing her that I don't work for maintenance and instead put on the sympathetic face I perfected when Bizzy would complain about the help. _Yes, of course I'll have someone come check the thermostat. Yes, of course Carmella should pay more attention to the scrollwork around the credenza when she's dusting._

I know what Eleanor is really complaining about – because his absence is as loud as ever in the room. No Colton, no mercy from Eleanor. I can take it, so I let her tire herself out a bit and then assure her I'll elevate her temperature complaints to the highest level.

Maybe I'll get Richard involved; a little part of me thinks he kind of deserves it.

(I love Richard – I still do, but he wouldn't be the first man I loved who sometimes feels like he's patting me on the head with one hand and screwing me over with the other.)

So I'm connecting with my patient and I'm still a little bit congratulating myself for that mature decision a couple of minutes ago when she hits me with the second reason she had me paged.

And it's a kicker.

The second reason: so she can tell me she wants _Dr. Shepherd_ on her case permanently instead of Dr. Graves. Whatever the scans say, whatever the procedure, she wants Derek on her case. Nay, she insists on it.

On _my_ case. My – ex, my case.

Ex-husband, non-ex-case.

Oh, and the cherry on top? I get to tell Derek myself.

In other words … metaphor no longer dead, because apparently it's going to be goodbye healthy decision, hello worms.

Lots of worms.

Worms _everywhere._

* * *

 ** _To be continued, of course. Lots going on in Addison's head in this chapter - next time, Derek actually makes an appearance outside her head again. I love hearing what you think, so I hope you'll review. Thank you for reading!_**


	23. healthy decisions

_**A/N: Faithful readers of this departure story, I am so appreciative. It's on a roll right now, and I'm going to encourage you to stick with it because hey, I want to keep writing it ... and I think you're going to like where it's going. Thank you for the comments on the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy this one.**_

* * *

..  
 _healthy decisions  
_..

* * *

So, where was I?

Right. I get the privilege of informing Derek that my patient has specifically requested that he replace Walter Graves on her surgical team.

Fine.

I don't do it yet, though.

I'm waiting for the scans to come back from the fetal MRI; the plan is for Derek and Walter to both reviewing them, and I'm not going to be the one to break up the neuro party by telling Walter he's been fired for a serious lack of clinical _cuteness_.

Because we're professionals.

Right? I mean, kind of?

And Walter is … Walter.

He's not exactly one of us.

I realize this might make a little more sense if I tell you a little bit more about Walter Graves.

I like him. I actually do. I think he's pretty damned good.

I lucked out that Walter Graves did a fellowship in neonatal neurosurgery in one of the big centers. He actually worked with one of the pioneers on infant vascular surgery techniques. We made a plan, and he's easy to work with and everything has been going fine.

(No drama. He _really_ doesn't fit in here, but that's another story entirely.)

Graves is also pushing fifty and has a nice reassuring grandpa-ish manner with patients – well, a grandpa from a book or a movie, not my grandfathers in particular. I didn't have that sort, of course, I had Grandfather Montgomery who told me when I was five years old that if I couldn't learn to mix a better cocktail I might as well leave for boarding school already, and Grandfather Forbes who died before I was born falling off a horse – one of the Top Three WASPiest ways to die if you didn't know, the very opposite of _unseemly._ Grandfather Forbes reportedly hated only one thing more than he hated outward expressions of emotion, poorly cooked pheasant, and non-subservient underlings: children.

(Oh yeah, I suppose it's not a surprise that he raised my mother. Well, "raised," the same way my mother raised me.)

As for Walter – yes, he's here in Seattle, which in theory should mean he's sub-normal IQ, but he's actually reasonably bright. He's done specific training on this type of fetal surgery and I think he'll do a good job.

Plus, you know, his grandpa-ness is probably a good thing.

I mean, he may not be dreamy _or_ steamy, but he's also never gotten – or given anyone else – syphilis (and yes, I know about that, it's not like anyone in this place can keep a secret). He hasn't screwed a single intern. He's married and actually seems to be okay with that. And yeah, to be fair, he also hasn't slept with his wife's best friend.

(What? I never said I wasn't part of the problem here. I just said I don't want to _be_ here, which is actually part of the problem. And the other part is that I have no idea where I'm supposed to be instead.)

So, yeah. Goodbye Walter, hello Derek.

 _Great._

..

I'm avoiding the task.

Obviously.

I check on a patient instead, then check in on the fetal MRI progress again – apparently, it's underway.

Finally.

I can hear Mark's voice as I round the corner – he sounds arrogant and casual, and a little amused. So he's talking to an intern.

And it's Karev. Great.

At least I can turn along this wall, and they won't see me.

… in theory, but it doesn't work.

(Shocking. When does anything I try actually work?)

"Dr. Montgomery," Mark says, dragging out the word a little bit, "just the woman I was looking for."

"What do you need, Dr. Sloan?"

He smirks at me, as if to say _so many things._

Join the club, Mark.

"Karev here is looking to get in on my surgery. Is he still in OB prison for the foreseeable future?" Mark jerks his thumb toward Karev. "I've got a Stage II microtia repair first thing in the morning, but I'm not paroling him if you don't okay it. You're the boss."

You'd think he was backing me up, but he's leering at me at the same time.

I glance at Karev, who is avoiding looking at me – not that I can blame him after how I acted in the attendings' lounge.

Mark's eyes slide over my blouse again, and then he smiles. "Maybe you and I should discuss this before you make a decision," he suggests.

Karev looks pretty disgusted, even in half-profile, and I feel the same, come to think of it.

"Talk to Dr. Bailey if you want Dr. Karev on your service," I tell Mark. "He's her responsibility, not mine."

"And the boss has spoken." Mark grins at me. "No more babies for you, Karev."

It's such an unfortunate thing to say after our last procedure together, and something in the set of Karev's shoulders tells me he doesn't disagree.

I don't want to think about Hannah in front of Mark, it's too close to the rest of the things I don't want to think about. The best defense is an offense, in my experience.

"Actually, I have a fetal CNS abnormality coming up that may result in a partial delivery procedure – and this malformation is rare enough that it's not going to swing by Seattle again any time soon. But by all means, Karev, go with Dr. Sloan for an _interesting_ surgery."

… even if it's not an offense against the right person.

I know. I know I'm being a bitch, and I know I'm not being fair to Karev. He's not the one who denigrated my specialty. He actually sought me out to try to get on the triplet surgery.

I'm not proud of myself.

And half of me wants Karev to call me out.

But he doesn't. He just stands there, while I glare at Mark and wonder why I can't seem to hit him no matter how much swinging I do.

Then Mark turns to Karev: "You have the rest of the night to read up on the procedure before you scrub in. Don't make me regret this. … and don't show up empty handed."

Mark mimes sipping from a coffee cup – sorry, cappuccino cup, and Karev nods before he's gone in a puff of _intern_ , leaving without meeting my eye.

"Addison..."

Oh, I know that tone.

"Don't."

Mark looks down at me – well, down my shirt more likely – and shakes his head a little. "Come on. Hey. So you drank a little too much last night. And got a little upset. We all need … release sometimes."

The way he says _release_ makes it clear what he means. It's so Mark, semi-aware that I'm not thrilled, sort of sympathetic … but still can't help making everything sexual.

"What's your point?"

I need to keep my distance from him. That's how I keep from making bad decisions.

"My point is … stop beating yourself up." He reaches out and moves a piece of hair away from my face. His fingers are warm.

"I'll keep that in mind," I say as his hand falls back to his side.

He smiles down at me. "I'll see you later."

"I have a case tonight."

"Come by when you're done, then."

He leans in and I brace myself on the edge of the filing cabinet, just in case. " …wear what you were wearing yesterday." He's speaking in a low voice, close to my ear so no one else can hear, although I'm sure the people walking by can't miss the subtext. "I didn't get to enjoy it."

I'm sending that bra to the dry cleaner as soon as I get back to the hotel.

Or burning it.

Mark leans back, grinning now. "And on that note, maybe this time try not to drink a bottle of gin first."

"Maybe this time _you_ should try not to screw a nurse first."

"Maybe this time you should show up a little earlier and join the party." He raises his eyebrows.

Ugh.

"Dr. Shepherd?"

I don't want to see Mark's face when I answer to my married name, so luckily the well-timed interruption is an intern telling me the radiologist is finished reading the fetal MRI … which means I can make a hasty escape.

..

I find Walter and Derek together in the viewing room, staring at the lit-up scans, and Derek gives me a kind of _he's a mystery to me too_ shrug. Add to Walter's list of non-dramatic attributes: he doesn't need to hog the spotlight, and he's not possessive of his patients.

The man's a freaking saint.

"Son of a gun," Walter is saying, indicating the evidence of the VGM like a proud papa. "Shepherd … that's quite a catch you made."

(Yes, he actually says _gun_. That's the kind of guy he is.)

That – and he actually sounds admiring. Not competitive. No edge to his voice, no hidden meaning. What you see is what you get.

Meanwhile, Derek is now doing his modest saving-lives-is-just-in-a-day's-work thing: lowered eyes, boyishly handsome smile. So not-surprised to be right.

I roll my eyes and don't bother trying to hide it. Much.

Whatever. I'm immune to his so-called charms at this point.

(Sort of.)

Now Walter is kind of glancing at me like he's waiting for me to admire Derek.

 _How long do you have, buddy?_

I don't say that out loud, of course.

"Yes, Derek is an excellent diagnostician," I say, because it's the kind of thing that sounds like a compliment – and in fact Walter does smile paternally at me like I've just apologized nicely for stealing one of Derek's toys.

But … if you're Derek, and I'm me, it's not a compliment. Because we both know that Derek is a surgery snob, and _diagnostician_ is a little too close to _neurologist –_ which of course is, to him, a dirty word.

Derek makes a face at me behind Walter's back and I do the same when Walter turns around.

Walter, though, smiles at both of us. Then he clears his throat, looking from one of us to the other. "I hate to get personal," he says.

(Literally, the _only_ human in this hospital who would say that, including some of the preemies waiting for me in the NICU right now.)

"…but I can't help noticing that the two of you have worked out your problems, and I think that's wonderful." He sounds … happy like all is right with the world. "Just wonderful."

"Worked out our – what?" I glance at Derek, unsettled.

Now Walter looks unsettled, and I realize what he means.

 _Shit._ How to draw attention to my brand spanking new _Addison Forbes Montgomery, M.D._ badge without making Walter feel bad – and without calling too much simultaneous to the fabulous black blouse that was definitely not intended for him?

Derek steps in before I can.

"We're divorced," he says quickly, and then extends his left hand, I guess to show Walter his bare fourth finger.

Walter just looks at it.

"What do you want him to do, knight you?" I hiss at him.

"He asked!" Derek protests.

"Actually … he didn't."

"I'm so sorry," Walter says, looking embarrassed now. "I certainly didn't mean to pry. I suppose this is why they say you should leave your personal lives out of the hospital."

And the thing is, he's _not being facetious._

God, I can't figure out if spending time with Walter is incredibly uplifting or depressing. Either way, he certainly has his own view of things.

"I've always said that personal and professional lives should be kept separate," Derek announces. He raises his eyebrows at me when Walter isn't looking.

"Oh, yes. It's Derek's mantra." I smile at him until Walter goes back to the chart and then it honestly takes all my self-control not to stick out my tongue.

Derek has the nerve to look amused.

I'm reminded of getting told off as interns for cracking each other up, a hundred years ago.

That's all it is now, memories. What's strange is that apparently it looks like _marriage_ to a salt-of-the-earth guy like Walter Graves.

..

We go back and forth on the VGM for a while, Walter offering expertise and respect for everyone else's opinions like the boy scout leader he is, Derek managing to give a pretty good impression of someone who thinks other people's opinions matter. And so forth.

And then Walter gets paged and it's just the two of us in the room.

Divorced us.

Not-Addison-and-Derek.

"So, Walter Graves." Derek is tilting his head back, looking at something on the top row of films. "I guess he's not up to date on current events."

"He needs to listen to more hospital gossip," I suggest.

"Or we need to create less of it."

"Yeah … but that seems like a stretch."

"Fair enough." Derek pauses. "Addison. I wanted to help, with Baby C. That's the only reason I ordered the fetal MRI."

Actually, I ordered the fetal MRI, but who's counting?

"I know that," I tell him. "I can tell when you actually want to help and when you …." I stop talking. It's hard to put the rest into words.

"All right, then," he says. "The rest is up to you and Graves."

… oh, yeah, I forgot to tell him that Eleanor wants him to take over.

Damn it.

I need to.

I really do.

So I open my mouth.

"I have to go check on a patient," I tell him, and when I'm walking down the hall I realize that my mouth is yet another _thing_ at Seattle Grace that's working against me.

..

The thing is, even if this all started when I wrong-footed Derek in the supply closet … I feel like he's the one who keeps wrong-footing me now.

Charming Eleanor, catching my eye over the ultrasound and behind Walter's back.

Making me remember how much _fun_ we used to have.

He loved me. I know he did, when he did, even if he wants to deny it now. I felt it, in all the big and small ways it would be too hard to describe right now. There's a heaviness to it that sometimes outweighs the lighter parts, but it's those parts I'm reminded of now.

So it's not totally my fault that I'm confused.

It's already hard enough that Derek can be the same person who told me he never wanted to see me again, ripped me apart in that supply closet, and put me back together in my hotel room when he didn't have to. Add to it that all I have to do is catch his eye and we have more than sixteen years of history – all the references and inside jokes and reminders that you build up when you're together a decade and a half.

I miss it.

I want it.

I'm a selfish bitch, we already know this, and I'm sure both Mark and Derek would be happy to swear to it in court if necessary.

But I _want_ it. I want the good parts. Even if I don't deserve them … I want them.

Okay, so healthy decisions, take two. We work together. On a case that doesn't bring up any low points in our careers _or_ marriage, or involve hospital ethics committees. We just – work together.

Other than battering Walter's self-esteem, I think this could be a – good thing.

So we can't avoid each other, so maybe I never get over it – but maybe that also means we can actually be friends instead of pretending we've never even met.

We were friends first.

No matter what Derek said in that supply closet, no matter how deeply he meant to cut me, we were friends first.

..

Healthy decision confirmed, Rivers chart in hand – now it's time to find Derek and let him know that my patient has specifically requested him.

This should be fun.

 _Friends_ , I repeat to myself, sounding as disbelieving as I feel.

Friends work together.

They don't argue.

I find Derek at the nurses' station on three where I expect to, and we start arguing pretty much straight off.

 _Great plan, Addie._

But it's okay, it's just about easy things – the options for treatment strategies that came up when we were reviewing the scans, and Walter's preference to hold surgery for immediate post-delivery.

"I thought you were done with her case."

"I am." He frowns. "These observations come from my consult."

Okay, then.

"Derek, you met Eleanor Rivers for ten minutes," I remind him. "Walter has been working with her from the beginning."

"It was more than ten minutes."

"Fine, it was more than ten minutes. You really think you know her better than Walter does?"

He doesn't answer, but he looks just smug enough to remind me that he's Derek, that there's no such thing as a patient he doesn't _know better_. His arrogance is part of who he is and, let's be real, it's not like I don't have some of my own to match it.

"Walter's good," I tell him. "He's very good. At surgery, I mean – which I understand is not necessarily what this hospital is known for."

For a minute half a year disappears and I'm standing in an identical hallway wearing a visitor's badge to argue with him about Meredith: _Oh, so you do recommend her. Just not for her medical skills._ We're sparring, hard, so I don't have to feel guilty, and I still have hope – stupid, blind hope – that I can erase the previous two months.

And then I'm back in the present.

"Fine. He's good." Derek blinks. "You're welcome for the consult, by the way."

"It's your job," I remind him, like he reminded me earlier this afternoon.

"Yes. It is." He looks like he'd like to exit the conversation.

 _Me too, honey, believe me._

"So, uh, Eleanor Rivers." I'm playing with the catch on my bracelet to try to postpone the inevitable.

"Eleanor Rivers," he repeats when I don't continue. "She doesn't seem very happy," he says mildly. "Maybe she'll feel better when Graves is back on her case."

 _About that …_

"She's a nightmare," I correct him.

He frowns. "That's not very compassionate," he says. "She's obviously uncomfortable."

Compassionate.

Seriously?

I just raise my eyebrows without saying anything. First of all, compassion is … well, I'll get back to that.

And second, I know Eleanor's uncomfortable. Derek doesn't have to tell me Trendelenburg sucks. I've tried it.

(Okay, fine, it was ten minutes during a compassionate care exercise when I was a resident, but the point stands. It definitely sucked.)

And even if Eleanor is actually having a worse time in Seattle than I am – and I am not conceding this, to be clear – I'm still not in the mood to deal with it. Especially in front of Derek. And especially when there's no clear end in sight.

Not to mention, speaking of _compassion_ , do you notice how much of it my husband manages to spare when it's not me?

Ex-husband. Damn it. I need more coffee.

And yes, I know he had compassion for me last night. Don't remind me, okay? It's embarrassing enough and my days are _long_ enough that I'm hoping I just might forget it.

(I won't.)

"Addison." He interrupts my train of thought. "… did you need something, or were you just stopping by to complain about your patient?"

"Do I have to pick one?"

He actually almost cracks a smile.

All right. Here goes.

I take a deep breath.

"Eleanor likes you," I tell him, and I don't bother hiding my opinion of _her_ opinion.

"She likes me," he repeats. He has the nerve to look amused. "Well, if she passes you a note for me in gym class, let me know."

Ugh. "It's not a compliment, Derek. It's _just_ this side of malpractice."

"Excuse me." He looks a little annoyed now, which I think I prefer. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you. Walter Graves has been working with her since she came in," I remind him. "Walter and I, we've planned this out."

"I'd hate to interfere with your plans with Walter," he says, now sounding amused again. Great. "Addison. What does Eleanor _liking_ me have to do with it, anyway?"

I just keep talking, feeling my voice get a little higher. "Walter was a Fetal Treatment Center fellow when it was new. He worked for Jarvis – who wrote the book on pediatric CNS malformations – "

"I know who he is."

I ignore him. "Walter's done immediate post-natal surgery here in this hospital in three different parallel cases. He's co-qualified in Peds, he _just_ published that new paper on Chiari malformations after the thirty-eighth week of pregnancy." I pause for breath.

"I'm aware of his credentials. He's my surgeon," Derek says, his tone clipped. "What's your point?"

Now he's back to being department head again, of course.

"My point is," I say with dignity, "Walter has an excellent record with this procedure and Eleanor was comfortable with him. Everything was fine. But now, because you showed up, it doesn't matter how qualified Walter is. It doesn't matter how much time he's put into her care. Walter doesn't have freaking … _soulful_ _eyes_ , so he's fired."

Derek doesn't say anything and I've kind of run out of steam. He's just looking at me.

"What?" I ask when he continues to look at me.

"You think I have soulful eyes?"

…and he's apparently back to amused, raising one eyebrow.

"Oh, shut up, Derek. My point is … Eleanor wants you on her case instead. She wants you to do the surgery."

"Yes. I'm gathering that." He pauses. "She's your patient," he says.

"Don't remind me."

"Addison …"

"What?"

"Nothing." He checks the time on his blackberry, pointedly.

Message received, Derek, you have more important things to do than talk to me. Just like half of 2003, and then pretty much every day since then. Copy.

"So. You want me to take over for Graves on Eleanor's team," he recites when I don't answer.

Want? Um. That seems like a pretty radical interpretation of my words, but …

"My _patient_ wants you to take over," I correct him. "Yes."

"Fine." He closes the chart.

"Fine." I pause. "Great. That's settled."

I'm still in the doorway, which doesn't escape his notice. He raises his eyebrows, a _say it or go away_ look if I've ever seen one.

I just smile, my best deb smile.

"So, Derek … the only question left is: who's going to tell Walter Graves that he's not _dreamy_ enough to perform a surgery he's specifically trained for?"

"I think I'll let you handle that part," Derek says mildly. "I know how much you dislike it when I interfere in your cases."

And with that – and one disarming smile – he's gone before I can even think of a good comeback.

* * *

 _To be continued. I think one of the strangest things about canon-early Season 3, in addition to how terribly everyone behaved, was how whiplash the relationships felt. Addison was in and out of bed with Mark, she and Derek were sniping at each other or ignoring each other or being nice to each other for five seconds ... it was exhausting. A lot of tone shifts. I mean, of course I loved it. I wanted to push on that confusion a bit for this story._

 _All that is to say, I hope you're enjoying it, and there's a lot more coming. So, since I'm about as subtle with reviews as Mark is with potential conquests ... thank you for reading, and I hope you'll review and let me know what you think!_


	24. favors

**A/N: _When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for_ _one_ story to be updated really fast because muse ... etc. etc. Thank you for the feedback on the previous chapters. The pace? I'm kind of excited for everything that's coming next, so I can't help it. Hope you enjoy this long chapter.**

* * *

..  
 _favors  
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* * *

New me, _healthy decision_ me, doesn't put off awkward conversations.

Not with people who haven't seen me naked, anyway.

So I find Walter in his office, reviewing some films with a look of concentration on his face. There are a stack of charts next to him – of course he charts on time, and probably his handwriting is even legible.

I don't think I want to know what he thinks of me.

(Actually, he'd probably say I'm great. Because he's Walter.)

And, because he's Walter, he's not even offended by Eleanor's decision.

"Derek hasn't done this procedure on anything less than a neonate," I can't help reminding him.

"True," Walter says, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, "but his spina bifida work will be very useful, and it's quite impressive – he was part of that third-trimester study out of Sinai and that combined with some of his arterial accomplishments – "

I tune out at _third-trimester study._

I'm very familiar with that study.

It was mine.

I mean, Derek's too … I guess. We shared the grant. We coauthored the article.

People thought it was _cute_ and Chief Abrams threw us a joint party when the stupid thing won an award.

Meanwhile, Walter is still standing here in Seattle where I'm pretty sure no one thinks we're cute, touting Derek's many achievements.

Whatever. I know he's good.

That doesn't mean I want to work with him on this case.

Or any case.

Okay, fine. Truthfully … Eleanor is probably best off if they're both involved in some capacity, and when I tune back in – I've been doing the country club thing that's gotten me through a hundred tedious fundraisers, where I nod and smile and look engaged and don't actually absorb a damned word – Walter's offering to consult and join our strategy meeting and of course he is.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

I'm not even lying.

My next stop is Eleanor's room, and I'll spare you the details. Even letting her know that Derek will be working the soft eyes full time on her case isn't enough to make her anything but annoyed with my presence.

Fine.

I have another case. I have other things to do.

I'm _healthy_ now. I can't even feel the hangover, I'm hydrated, I'm caffeinated, and these shoes don't even hurt.

(Much.)

..

I don't want to have too much free time – empty blocks of _nothing_ are dangerous – so I offer to section Goldberg's patient so she can finish a post-op. It's not just keeping busy, either: I wouldn't mind delivering a healthy, full-term baby right about now. For me, it's kind of the surgical equivalent of a really strong drink.

I scrub in and from the door swinging shut to the first cut I get about three quarters _Dr. Shepherd_ to one quarter _Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd_ and I pretty much give up on correcting people. Correcting Meredith Grey is one thing – but I don't want to have this conversation over and over again. Plus, I'm scrubbed in – but even in the outside world, while my new badge just says _Montgomery_ , I also don't think I need to direct every member of faculty and staff at this hospital to stare any longer than necessary at my chest.

The rhythms of an uncomplicated cesarean – I could do this procedure in my sleep, but I wouldn't want to.

I'd be missing out.

I'm checked in, I'm present, and the squalling new life keeps me grounded.

It's a girl.

She's fat and perfect – forty-one weeks will do that for you – and the husband is cutting the cord and everyone is crying.

This high – _healthy baby, healthy mama_ – it's kind of worth it.

Worth what it's like when you don't get the fat perfect baby. When you have to deliver bad news and the tears aren't happy and no one wants to cut the cord.

..

I stop in to see them once they've moved her to step-down – chasing the dragon, maybe, because as soon as the baby was shuttled off the room started feeling oppressive again.

Here, at least, in the room that smells of lemon cleanser and curdled milk, the mother is cuddling her swaddled infant and her husband is sitting half on the bed supporting her with one arm like they're posing for newborn photos.

"How's everyone feeling?" I ask. It's my maternity voice, not so bright that it would disturb the baby, but not so somber that you'd think something was wrong.

"Good," she says without looking up.

"Any pain?"

"No. Not really. And look how well she's latching!"

I move to the side of the bed so I can admire the latch – which is perfect, the benefit of forty-one weeks of palate development.

I've spent so much time with preemies, and then micropreemies, in my career that babies like this one – _full-term-plus_ , we'd call them, or sometimes _overcooked_ – basically look like toddlers to me.

Still, though, even though this newborn is pink and filled out, as ready for the world as any baby can be in what's essentially the fourth trimester, protected by her own layers of fat instead of a warming isolette – I can't help being struck, as I always am, by just how _new_ she is.

She hasn't done anything yet. Her whole life is in front of her. That tiny, dimpled hand wrapped around her mother's thumb – it's going to hold a crayon in a couple of years. A pencil, then a pen, maybe even a scalpel.

Just so much promise.

Completely unmarked by mistakes.

There's so little time before we start screwing things up.

I'm a little lost, just for a minute, in the soft rhythmic sounds of the baby's suckling. It's quiet in the room – peaceful, even.

The mother – she'll feel pain, and soon, and it's going to suck rebuilding her stomach muscles and having to cede a lot of the heavy lifting to her husband. The father – he'll stay besotted, maybe, but when the baby's up all night screaming, he won't be quite as anxious to sit millimeters away.

But still, right now, it's peaceful.

Perfect.

"Well. I just wanted to check in."

"Thank you so much, Dr. …" the husband, who's been completely absorbed in his wife and child, looks up now and is scanning for my name tag.

"Montgomery," I tell him before he has to scan any further.

"Dr. Montgomery," he says, not looking at me anymore. "And, uh, thank Dr. Goldberg for us too."

And then the baby, who's half-sleeping and half-suckling, makes a tiny noise and he and his wife are completely enraptured.

I do all the things I'm supposed to do but I'll admit I linger, a little, in the doorway, absorbing just a little of that sense of newness and promise that isn't mine at all.

..

Maybe it's the perfect newborn, or the good-news-for-once procedure, but when I catch sight of the back of Karev's head walking down the hallway – swaggering is more like it, if you want to be precise – I suddenly want to make up for some of my wrongs.

"Dr. Karev!"

He turns around but doesn't actually acknowledge me – which could either be a busy intern thing or an insolent intern thing.

(I'll let you guess which one he is.)

But it's not like he doesn't have reason to be pissed off at me.

I wait to talk until I've caught up to him.

"I wanted to let you know that we still don't know what's going to happen with Baby C. But assuming we operate … you can have in."

"Yeah?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah."

"Don't do me any favors," he says.

Okay … so he's more pissed than I thought.

Which pisses _me_ off.

(Because anger is easier than guilt, didn't you know?)

"Seriously, Karev? Your career depends on attendings being willing to do you _favors_ , so you should probably check the attitude if you actually want to be a surgeon."

"Why?" he asks. "You're an amazing surgeon, and your attitude sucks."

It takes me a second to parse that, to separate the threads of insult and compliment and – whatever it is, it's totally inappropriate.

He doesn't look the slightest bit sorry, either.

"Karev." I prop a hand on my hip. But I just can't bring myself to yell at him when I've pretty much screwed him over twice today and he's barely fired back. I guess I can give him this one. "Look," I say, lowering my voice a little. "I'm meeting with Shepherd and Graves in…" I check the time. "…twenty minutes. We'll know more about timing after that. We'll be assembling a team. So – are you in?"

He looks at me for a second longer than is strictly pedagogically necessary.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm in."

..

Derek and I are taking turns pacing the conference room.

We're both pacers, but he's always been a clockwise guy and I'm counter-clockwise so if we're not careful, we can pace right _into_ each other.

And I think we've done each other enough damage without adding a concussion to the list.

Walter, meanwhile, is standing still and calm like the fulcrum of a divorced seesaw.

"Identifying the VGM changes everything," Derek announces, like it's news.

Not that I'm surprised. This is probably what it was like when Christopher Columbus told everyone he'd _discovered_ an inhabited mass of land in the Atlantic.

(Thanks a lot for that, by the way, Chris – if not for you, I might not be here in a room testing the boundaries of _healthy decisions_ with my husband.)

Ex-husband.

Ex, ex, _ex._

"It changes some things, Derek," I correct him. "It doesn't change everything."

He shoots me one of his recognizable _don't be petty_ looks – I've given them and received them in fair share over the years.

And then we're arguing again – it's not that heated, certainly not for us, but we keep walking over the same territory. Three surgeons in the room: one neuro, who's performed a somewhat parallel co-procedure on third trimester fetus but not this particular procedure, one pediatric neuro with fortuitous expertise on arterial embolization pre-birth, and me. Fetal surgeon – among other things – and healthy decision maker, who doesn't base her requirements for surgical team on dreaminess _or_ divorce bitterness.

Okay?

Good. I'm glad that's settled.

Now I can go back to arguing.

"I'm not saying your opinion is irrelevant."

"Thank you," he interrupts, sarcastically, and we pause to kind of glare at each other, but without any real malice.

"You haven't co-performed _this_ procedure in the third trimester, Derek. And Walter has."

"That fetus was thirty-four weeks gestation," Walter says. "I was working with an extraordinary fetal surgeon – as Derek would be too, of course," he adds, giving me a benevolent smile. I catch Derek half-rolling his eyes once Walter turns around. "And we had an emergency delivery plan mid-procedure and we delivered directly afterwards. And it was a singleton pregnancy."

Okay, so Walter's weighing in … but he's not taking a side.

It's almost like he doesn't realize there are sides.

Come _on_ , Walter. There are always sides. Particularly when there are Shepherds involved.

"So … you think we should wait," I prompt him, encouragingly.

The thing is, the triplet thing? It's a major part of all this.

Because everything that happens to Baby C affects her brothers, even though they're sharing a separate placenta from hers.

"I know taking all three of them out at twenty-nine weeks is borrowing trouble," Walter says slowly, "especially for the twins."

"But we don't have to take out the twins," Derek says. "Or any of them, not if it goes as planned."

"And if it doesn't go as planned?" I ask.

Okay, so … before I go any further.

The twins are Baby A and Baby B. Yes, they're part of a set of triplets, but they're also identical twins. It's complicated in Eleanor's uterus.

And Walter's right about development. The twins are already smaller than their sister, who has the benefit of her own nutrient machine.

So, here are our options:

Option one: we could deliver all three, operate on Baby C, lose her – and the boys have already entered the world underdeveloped and at significantly higher risk for major complications. Brain damage, seizures, death.

Option two: could wait until all the babies are stronger, more developed, and then partially deliver Baby C, do the embolization procedure, and _then_ deliver all three babies. They'll all be stronger and much more likely to survive with minimal or even no complications.

… assuming the surgery works.

If not, we're talking about losing Baby C and sending Eleanor's complicated uterus into major dysfunction … which means emergency delivery of the twins under time pressure that makes _crunch_ sound like leisure.

Option three: we could operate, it's a success, we deliver Baby C _but_ leave the twins in there until they're ready to come out.

And finally, option four: we could operate, make sure it's a success, and _not_ deliver Baby C – but tuck her back into that complicated uterus to finish developing with the VGM crisis resolved. If it actually works –it's essentially saving all three of the babies and giving them the best shot at a healthy future.

Of all the solutions, that last one is the most complex, the most potentially dangerous, and the least likely to work.

So it's not surprising that it's the one Derek is in favor of.

He's pacing again, ticking off statistics on why he doesn't think we should wait.

"There's no spinal fluid buildup," I point out.

" _Yet._ There's no spinal fluid buildup yet."

"Do you want to risk all three babies for a problem one of them doesn't have yet?"

"Do _you_ want to wait until she's hydrocephalic and we lose all our options?" he counters.

Walter Graves, voice of reason: "Waiting does seem prudent in the short time," he offers, "along with continuous monitoring, at least in the face of no measurable CNS risk at this time."

Derek looks like he's not sure which one of us he'd like to strangle more.

He turns his glare in my direction.

"You asked for a consult," he reminds me, his voice clipped. "And then you informed me I would be joining the team."

"Actually, I informed you that Eleanor wanted you to join the team." And I didn't actually ask _him_ , specifically, for a consult, but I don't feel like arguing about that now.

(Which one of us is less petty, then? Also, don't answer that.)

Derek blinks. "How is that different?" he asks.

"Eleanor asked for you because she thinks you're _cute_ ," I remind him.

(Okay, I didn't say I wasn't petty, just that I might be _less_ petty than he is.)

"Excuse me," he says, annoyed. "The reasoning behind the patient's choice of provider has nothing to do with – "

"It has everything to do with how we proceed! Walter knows the case better than you do. You're brand new."

"Brand new." He widens his eyes. "Really."

"Derek." I'd like to start pacing again, burn off some of this energy, but we're standing a foot apart and I don't want to turn my back.

It's not that I think he's going to knife it – not this time, anyway – but turning away is like giving up the fight and I'm not there yet.

"Doctors," Walter says in his calm, oh-so-reasonable tone, "we don't have to decide this right now. With the excellent care you've provided for Mrs. Rivers and her triplets, Addison – and the excellent find you made today, Derek – we're in good stead. We can continue to monitor."

"Not indefinitely," Derek mutters.

"Who said anything about indefinitely?" I ask, propping a hand on my hip.

He shakes his head like I'm the one being unreasonable.

 _Typical_.

"Doctors?" Walter prompts again.

I wonder if he knew what he was getting into when he agreed to work with both of us.

Maybe he and Richard should have a drink. Or three.

Meanwhile, Derek and I are essentially having a staring contest.

"Fine," Derek says after a grudging silence.

"Fine," I echo, even though we're actually doing what I wanted, so I don't know if I have to agree – but this way Walter gets to be the decider and I can compromise. Or something.

"So we'll reconvene tomorrow," Walter says heartily. He still has that wise-grandpa expression but I'm wondering if he's not wishing both Shepherds had stayed on the east coast.

"Yes. Please keep me informed," Derek says to me, and I throw him a bone – since Walter basically took my side – and don't remind him that I'm not his resident.

"I'll keep you both informed," I respond in my nicest plays-well-with-others voice.

(Remember, I never said I wasn't petty.)

Derek doesn't say anything, but I can tell just from his breathing that he knows exactly why I put it that way.

He's the first one to leave the room.

..

I end up helping one of the MFM fellows and then getting pulled into another consult and by now it's not just kind of late, it's legitimately late.

So I decide to leave the hospital, maybe hit the hotel gym and burn off some stress, eat a balanced dinner, catch some restful sleep.

Just seeing if you're paying attention.

Obviously, my _actual_ next step is the attendings' lounge so I can drink some more bad coffee to power me through the rest of the night. A little palate cleanser, if you will, before the glass of wine I'm seriously craving hits my bloodstream back at the hotel.

(Hair of the dog. It's a thing.)

But of course, since the universe hates me, Derek is already in the lounge, standing at the carafe. He's not touching it – he's just standing there with his head tilted a little like he's thinking.

I used to find him like that sometimes – halfway through some menial task because his brain just couldn't seem to help coming up with big ideas when he tried to slow it down to, you know, rake leaves or wash dishes.

He's lost in his own thoughts and I almost hate to disturb him … but I really, really need some coffee.

"Addison." He clicks back to earth when I'm within interrupting distance. "What are you still doing here?"

Oh, I could take that _so_ many ways.

A week ago I'd swear he meant Seattle. His territory. His _life._

Tonight, though. I experiment with giving him the benefit of the doubt, even if it feels not-quite-right like a new shoe that still needs to be broken in on one side.

Maybe he's legitimately curious.

Maybe he remembers that I wasn't quite feeling … myself, this morning.

"I had a case."

He nods. "So you're feeling better, then."

I'm still trying to gauge how loaded the words are and I guess if I have to think about it – well, that's a sign that I do need sleep.

Or coffee.

Derek is apparently satisfied that my hangover is gone because he starts in on the Baby C plan like we never left that conference room.

Is he _trying_ to make my headache come back?

I can't listen to this without caffeine. Derek's on a roll – of course he is – so I grab both our mugs while he holds forth on fetal development like I'm not exponentially more qualified to discuss it than he is.

"And then there are the cardiac implications of – Addison, what are you doing?"

"What?" I tune back in at my name.

"That's my mug," Derek says, pointing.

He seems to have just noticed.

"I was pouring coffee," I tell him, a little self-conscious now.

"Well, don't pour my coffee." He moves the mug away from me.

Who's petty now?

(And yes, I know the answer is _both of us_ – meant to be.)

"Very mature. And civilized." I pull open the fridge and, with enough show to enjoy it a little, sniff the milk. "Ooh, now _that_ is not civilized. Guess you'll have to drink your coffee black."

And then I finish filling mine and take a long sip.

Derek is just looking at his mug, so I look at it too. I'm not going to let myself feel – nostalgic. Or whatever I feel when I think about pouring coffee for him, one of those dime-a-dozen moments of marriage that are so natural I swear we could be in a nursing home in fifty years and I think I'd still pour for both of us.

I concentrate on his mug instead of the implications of that.

It's the same Bowdoin mug I remember, of course, heavy ceramic, shaped like a beer stein with that stupid not-quite-smiling sun in the middle. See, one of the perks of divorce: I don't have to look at that mug every day.

(I do have to wonder how it got here. I mean after he cut my wardrobe in half and stormed off, I know he came back, and packed, but the mug? He took the mug?)

"Nice mug," he says, nodding at mine. I guess we've been doing the same thing.

So I follow his gaze to the free mug I got when I signed my contract. As anonymous and sterile as my existence here.

 _Nice mug._

It's just two words, but it's Derek and it's me so I know exactly what he's thinking. _Outsider_ , he's thinking. _This is my territory._ If he could I think he'd stamp _visitor_ on my badge again like those first days after I landed in Seattle.

I make a mental note to … buy a mug. Can't let a little thing like depression make Derek think he has the upper hand.

I don't say anything, though, and Derek tilts his head a little like he's evaluating me. I wonder if he's thinking about last night, or this morning.

"So. Baby C," he says.

Right. He's thinking about the case.

"We monitor daily, and without measurable delta we reevaluate fully at thirty weeks," I tell him.

"That's what you think is the best course," he says doubtfully.

"No, Derek, I think it's the worst one, that's why I proposed it."

"There's no need for sarcasm." Now his face is drawn downward in disapproving lines.

Even though he's wrong.

There is _so much_ need for sarcasm.

(For one, it's a hell of a lot better than sentimentality – and a lot less likely to scar.)

"There are three babies at issue here, Derek," I remind him. "And one fragile cervix keeping them all in there."

I'm not going to say _incompetent_.

"Can't you deal with her cervix surgically?"

Oh, the nerve.

"Yes, of course we can. Why didn't _I_ think of that? I guess I just like making women lie at inhumane angles for months at a time. Thank goodness for your expertise, Derek."

"More sarcasm," he observes icily.

"More _stupid_ questions."

For a minute we both just breathe.

"Monitor daily, reevaluate in a week," he repeats.

I guess it sounds better to him when he says it.

Not that I'm surprised.

With a fair amount of effort, I tamp down the sarcastic tone. "Yes, Derek. That's what I proposed."

"Fine." He drinks about half the coffee in his mug in one long swallow. He always does that, then dawdles over the second half. I never asked him why – I guess he needs that first hit, hard.

He catches me looking. "Was there anything else?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure I don't to have business with you to be in the attendings' lounge."

"Fair enough." He surprises me by pouring out the rest of the coffee – ooh, his mother would have a fit if she knew he was wasting coffee like a … like a snob, like a rich kid, like a Montgomery … and then rinsing his mug and turning it upside down neatly in the rack. For all the world like someone who used to pour his own coffee, handle his own mugs.

(He didn't.)

He glances at me for just a second and I speak before I can censor myself.

"I ... appreciate your joining the team."

Oh, god. I'm the one who said it.

There's no one else here I can blame.

It's true, which is the worst part of all.

God, I need a drink. A drink, and not to have to parse _why_ it's true.

At least Derek looks pretty surprised, which I suppose is worth saying something so embarrassing.

"… even if I still think you're underestimating the gestational development issues," I finish weakly.

"That's more like it." He looks amused rather than offended. "Keep me posted on the fetal progress?"

"Of course. I already said I would."

"Right."

He looks at me for a second, and I can tell he's about to say something. It has that sense of buildup like I'm waiting for a sneeze and I'm about to yell at him – _just say it_ – when his pager goes off.

"Sorry," he says, gesturing to his hip, and I wave him away like it's fine.

..

When I finally get back to my hotel room – not _home_ , my hotel room – it could be any night since I checked in.

That's the thing with hotels. They clean up all the evidence, start fresh every day.

The bed looks the same. Big, and white, and untouched.

Like nothing happened there, last night. Like everything didn't happen.

I know if I went over to the bed – and I'm not saying I'm going to do this, okay? – but if I did, and I pressed my face into the pillows, there'd be no trace of anything.

No scent.

Nothing human, just … the kind of detergent that's thankfully expensive enough not to smell like detergent.

It smells like nothing.

(Fine, I did do it.)

Nice, clean nothing.

In the bathroom, where I study the lines on my face in the mercifully flattering track lights and consider taking off my makeup, all the towels are dry and fresh and neatly hung, little glass bottles of whatever have all been replaced, and there's some folded clothing on the little marble table.

They always fold anything I leave out, but I don't usually –

Oh, right.

That charity 10K shirt, the one Derek gave me last night to put on. I unfold it and hold it open.

It still has that same ill-advised smiley face that made us laugh, back then.

It's faded and soft. I hold it up to my face for a minute – it hasn't been washed.

One thing in the room that doesn't smell like _nothing._

It's one whiff and one rush of memory of his arms around me, his hands in my hair, and I have to stop.

In a room that's mostly, purposefully, expertly filled with _nothing_ – there's too much Derek.

There's way too much Derek.

His first visit here took me long enough, and wine enough, and _Mark_ enough to get over – and the second one sent me into a tailspin, as you know.

A third one might just kill me so I think I need to get him out of here.

The 10K shirt goes in the pretty linen laundry bag.

I wash my hands, just in case any lingering scent might tempt me later.

There we go. If only the rest of him could be freshly laundered.

Because I'm starting to wonder if I've signed on for more Derek than I think I can handle, with the Rivers case.

But that's a long-term problem.

I have short-term problems too, and I should probably think about those first.

Because one of those short-term problems is knocking on my door right now.

Twice, three times … and then I hear a key slide into the lock.

 _Okay, here goes, Addie. Healthy decision time, take two._

(Wish me luck.)

* * *

 _To be continued (of course). The flavor of Addison's poignant/depressing thoughts about the newborn are Six Day, Part I-inspired. That's one of the top ten saddest Addison episodes, I think, which is saying a lot when pretty much every storyline she ever got was sad. So! Here we are, 24 chapters in, flowing fast. I appreciate everyone who's been reading and I triple appreciate everyone who's been writing. Thank you! So. Review and let me know what you think?_


	25. an open eye

**A/N: Sorry this has taken a little while to update. In return for your patience: an extra long chapter. I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

..  
 _an open eye_  
..

* * *

I know that key, the one I can hear sliding into the lock of my hotel room door.

And before I go on, just let me ask: have you ever been lonely? Like, really, _seriously_ lonely? As in – completely alone.

I really hope not, because it sucks.

But if you have ... then maybe you'll get it.

Because I know I said before that being with Mark was just being alone in stereo, and I stand by that.

But at least _stereo_ means company.

(Yes, I know I'm shooting myself in the foot. I know that. If you haven't figured out yet that I'm an expert at destroying any chance I have to fix my life – well, just keep watching. Or watch me on fast-forward like I'm doing in my own mind now: night after embarrassing night when I keep telling myself I'm done sleeping with him but … he has a key.)

A key I gave him.

So most nights, since I moved into this box of a non-home, I didn't even have to make the choice. He let himself into my room and I could act surprised even though I could have put the chain on, if I'd wanted to.

That was then.

Now, here, in the present moment, I can hear his key in the lock again – it fits, of course it fits. Of course it fits.

I hear the electronic buzz that means he has access, the one that sounds like _gotcha_.

I'm just standing in the open bathroom doorway now and what I'm thinking about is this poem – yeah, I know, but it's like a dozen words, about as much poetry as this bio major can remember. It goes like this:

 _You fit into me  
Like a hook into an eye  
a fish hook  
an open eye_

It's a … what's the phrase again … a "love poem with a twist."

Boy, do I get that. There's clearly a reason that's the only poem I remember from the mandatory literature classes I took in college. It's me, except my life is ninety percent twist to ten percent love poem.

The door rattles, and there's the sound of the key again.

He hasn't given up.

It's a sign of just how surreal life in Seattle is that I'm kind of … touched by that, in a way.

My husband gave up on me while we were still married.

(I know, what was it my _husband_ said in the supply closet that day: _you probably thought Mark was your friend too._ )

The two of them, Mark and Derek, are the two counterpoints of pretty much my entire adult life.

I don't know how to turn that off. Sometimes, I don't think I know how to do anything anymore.

There's that clicking again. The key.

And now the door is rattling again.

Oh, did I mention I actually put the chain on tonight?

Yeah. I'm surprised too. And proud of myself, a little. Maybe.

And then I hear his voice, rumbling through the cracked door, which is open the small amount the chain allows.

"Addison. What's up with the chain?" he asks through the gap.

"What do you mean?"

... yeah, I guess I've given up pretending not to be home.

"I can't open the door," he says.

I make my way toward the sound of his voice.

"I know you can't," I tell him. "That's _what's up with the chain_."

Good comeback, right?

"Addison … you're being crazy."

"Actually, I'm being smart." I study the few-inch gap in the door the chain allows. "Change the process to change the outcome," I recite. "I can't seem to say no when I'm in a room with you … so I'm just not going to be in a room with you."

He's quiet for a moment, still bracing the door.

"What if I don't like that outcome?" he asks.

"It's my experiment," I remind him.

There's a long pause.

"Look, I didn't come here for sex, Addison," he says finally.

It's a sign of how far my life has come ("far," to be clear) that I don't even mind having this conversation through a door, in a hallway, of a hotel, basically in public.

"Yeah, right you didn't."

"No, really." I hear him shift a little, I move a step closer, and one blue eye comes into focus. "I just wanted to check on you," he says.

"You did?"

"Yeah, I did. You know, see how the hangover's going."

"Oh."

"So … are you?"

"Am I what?" I ask.

I wait for him to say _are you going to open the door?_

But he says, " _Are_ you all right?"

I take a step back instead of answering. I can still see one blue eye through the crack in the door and part of his head; he nods encouragingly.

And I tell him I'm all right.

I lie, in other words, and I search what I can see of his face to try to figure out whether he can tell. He looks sad, I think.

Or maybe it's just my own reflection in his eyes.

He rattles the door a bit now, gently.

"Addison … chain…?"

Right.

I close the door again, pull off the chain and then open it.

And I'm not going to do anything, I'm just going to talk to him, just have a little human contact.

"You look tired," he announces as soon as he's inside.

"Is that supposed to turn me on?"

"No." He smiles amiably as he walks over to me. "I don't need a lot to turn you on, remember?" He pulls me toward him with one big hand – I hate myself for shuddering a little when our bodies make contact; can I help it that I'm chronically starved for touch?

He just smirks at me. "It's one of my favorite things about you, actually."

"Mark … we're not doing this, remember?"

He steps back, raising his eyebrows, and I hate myself for missing the contact.

 _Skin on skin_ , that's what we do with babies who are born too soon, to make them feel alive. I might be a surgeon and a pretty damned good one but sometimes it's apparent I might have the emotional intelligence of a twenty-four-week preemie.

And Mark is just looking at me.

He's here, in my hotel room. He's just … here.

Looking.

"Take off your shirt," he says, his voice low.

Okay, so much for _looking._

I do it.

I'm not proud of it, I'm not proud of _me_ , but I do it, and he's watching me the whole time in a way that makes my insides turn over. I'm not so far gone I don't get it, that getting naked is the best way of keeping his attention, but I'm not sure I can acknowledge it without admitting things I don't really want to think out loud, so –

Yeah. I do it.

"You're mixing it up," he notes with a combination of disappointment and approval, indicating the bra I'm wearing – a different one from last night, of course, despite his suggestion this afternoon. This one is a pale pink, so pale it's almost white, mostly satin. It works with the fabulous black blouse because any slippage and it will just look like part of my skin.

(I know, the jokes make themselves: even my lingerie lies. Just like me.)

"Look at you, Addison. You're a blushing bride." He grins at his own joke and then frowns. "Hey. You _are_ actually sober, right? I don't need Derek threatening me with a breathalyzer and the sex offender registry again."

Record-scratch.

So much for being turned on.

"Yes, I'm sober."

"Good." Then he frowns again. "But not _too_ sober …?"

See, just when I'm about to give up on Mark, I remember that he gets me in this one particular way. The way where he can acknowledge that if I'm not a _little_ drunk, I might not put out. Neither of us likes ourselves very much, you know? Which makes me wonder … if we only like each other a little more than that, does _that_ add up to more than zero?

I stop doing math because he's apparently picked up my drift so I let him open a bottle of wine, pour us both glasses of a red big enough to distract me.

It could almost be civilized, except for the fact that I'm wearing a bra instead of a shirt and he's not bothering to pretend to look at my face.

"So. The hangover's gone but you're still stressed out, huh?" he asks when I've drained my glass.

I shrug.

"What is it this time?" We're sitting on the side of the bed and he brushes some of my hair away from my face so he can get access to my neck; I let him for a minute – he's actually been surprisingly restrained for the whole glass of wine. Then I remember how little I want to swear a scarf tomorrow.

"Cut it out."

He doesn't seem bothered. "You're distracted, Addison. I get it. Is it that intern you were yelling at? What's his name again? The one on my service tomorrow?"

"Karev?" Hopefully he won't notice anything in my tone. I stand up and set the wine glass down, which is a mistake because I need something to do with my hands. "What about him? And I wasn't yelling at him," I add.

"I don't know, he's got a mouth on him. Maybe he's been mouthing off." Mark pauses, then smirks. "Or maybe you'd like him to."

"Mark."

"Hey." He widens his eyes, sets his own wine glass down and joins my pacing. I can actually feel the warmth of his body behind mine even though he's not touching me. "Maybe your husband isn't the only dirty attending who's after the interns …?"

"That's disgusting. And he's my ex _-_ husband." I stop walking. " _Mark._ "

"Hey, I'm not judging. Whatever gets you off." He takes a few steps forward, so I have to take them backwards, and then my back hits the wall. "Tell you what. How about a little role play? I'll be an intern … and you can tell me what to do."

"Mark – "

"That's intern Mark to you." He laughs a little and kisses me when I don't say anything in response. "Go ahead and give me some orders."

(Stop judging. I swear, this isn't working on me. I'm just – tired, and lonely, and if you knew what he was doing with his hips right now….)

"How about if I order you to leave me alone?"

"Ooh, that's the one thing that's not in my job description."

Somehow, even though I'm backed against the wall, he's still advancing. Little things like sheetrock don't get in the way of Mark Sloan's conquests, I guess.

I can't stop myself, I guess. All I can do is try to take back a little control.

And then I'm unbuckling his belt, keeping my eyes lowered so I don't have to look into his and see they're a mirror of mine.

The thing is, hating Mark is like hating myself and I already hate myself enough for both of us.

And I don't know if that math makes sense, or if it just adds up to a big zero like the rest of my life.

So all I do is lower myself down, slowly, and when I look up at him from under my lashes I can see that his gaze is fixed directly on me.

Just me.

It's enough to make me feel almost like I'm in control.

Of this, of us, of _me._

Of anything.

Look, I never said I wasn't a cliché. The thing is, I was a late bloomer.

Somewhere in between eleventh and twelfth grades, when being taller than half the boys changed from a joke to a challenge … boom. It happened.

And just like that, the first time I made a boy beg – some paint-by-numbers lacrosse jock at the country club who didn't give me a second glance the summer before – I felt it. Pulsing in my veins louder than the music at the social we abandoned. And even though I was the one on my knees in the cabana shed that smelled of old seaweed, and I was the one who had to swig gin straight from the bottle afterward to get the taste out of my mouth – _he_ was the one who wanted it. Who wanted me. And I felt powerful.

… okay, it's possible I could use some therapy. But in lieu of that, I choose to numb the pain.

I'm here, and Mark's here, and I let myself fall back in.

..

When he's returned the favor and then done his best Mark Sloan performance of alternately trying to shove me through a wall and trying to crack the box spring of the mercifully sturdy hotel bed, and we're lying there recovering, he says: "You know something … I thought you might screw Derek when I left last night."

His tone is casual, like he wouldn't be bothered one way or the other.

I don't say anything.

"And what's funny," he continues, "is that I don't remember the last time I thought that."

"Huh?" I'm a little confused. Maybe my brain is still recovering from what he just did to the rest of me.

"Forget it," he says lightly.

"We're divorced," I remind him.

"I know." He's trailing his fingers over my back now, and I keep shifting because I'm ticklish or uncomfortable or something. "So? That means you didn't screw him last night, I take it?"

I have one of those unfortunate smash-cut memories from last night, like I had earlier today, it's dark and quiet in the room with a handful of yellow city lights splattered on the white duvet, and I'm climbing astride the man I was married to for eleven years, and pretty much begging him to have sex with me.

And he's saying no.

Twice.

He's holding me anyway, and that's the awful part, the really embarrassing part. The part I would never tell Mark. He'd probably just think I was covering up something more scandalous – more sexual – and that kind of says all I need to know right now about the three of us.

"Of course we didn't," I say without looking at him.

"Good." His hand is molding around me now in a sort of possessive way, but it's Mark – he doesn't possess anyone; he possesses everyone.

It's not that he's not attracted to me. And I know he cares, sort of, in his way. It's just that he's Mark and he'd screw anyone and he feels _attracted_ and _care_ to pretty much any living woman.

Sometimes I don't understand how I could have sought out Mark for attention when what he does is actually the opposite of making me feel special.

I'm sober now, is the thing.

Well, fine, not _sober_ , but a glass of wine is basically a glass of water when you're me.

So yeah, I'm sober and I made a terrible decision anyway.

I'm _making_ one, because Mark is Mark and apparently we're not done.

"Wait," I tell him. "Mark … stop."

He groans with frustration. "Seriously, this again? I couldn't get you off me last night, I already got you off tonight, and now you're back to the shy girl at the sorority formal?"

"No." I sit up a little. "And you know, it's not exactly a crime if a _sorority girl_ says no, either."

"Oh, come on." He sits up. "I didn't come in here for sex ed."

"No, just for sex."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Addison. Like it's not what you wanted."

"Maybe I don't want it anymore."

His gaze slides down my admittedly mostly naked body.

Yeah, I take his point.

"I don't think I have another round in me tonight, okay?" I say it with as much dignity as I can.

"You," Mark says doubtfully. " _You_ are closing up shop after one round? Who are you and what have you done with the Addison I know?"

"Look, I do … appreciate it," I tell him, and immediately feel awkward about it when he raises his eyebrows.

"You're going to thank me for sex?" he asks, looking amused. "Again?"

"No." I feel myself blushing now. "I just mean – this is it, Mark. Really. Remember? Co-workers, and nothing more."

His brow furrows. "Yeah, I remember that speech. How long was it after that that you were getting naked in my hotel room?"

"That's not the point. The point is, I'm done." I pull the sheets up a little higher to prove my point, hiding my breasts from his view. Not that he couldn't probably have a sketch artist draw them perfectly just from memory by now, but it's the principle of the thing.

"You're done," Mark says slowly. "With me, you mean."

"Yes. This … part of you, anyway." I gesture vaguely toward his naked body.

He looks like he's thinking, and I'm not sure about what.

"And Derek?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're done with him?"

I look at his face to see if it explains why he's asking the question, but I can't read it.

"Of course I'm done with him, Mark. We're divorced."

"Yeah." He shakes his head a little. "I'm not talking about the papers, Addison. I'm talking about all this – whatever the two of you had going on. You're fighting with Derek, he's fighting with you, you're having showdowns in scrub rooms, he's drunk, you're drunk …." His voice trails off. "It's over? You worked it out?"

Um.

Only in the most liberal definition of _worked it out_ , right?

As in … no, we didn't.

"It's over," I tell Mark instead.

It tastes as uncertain as I feel, but I'm banking on his not noticing. It's Mark, who notices things like my hemlines and my … stamina, but I don't think he's ever put that much thought into whether I'm telling the truth.

"We're working together," I admit. "Derek and I. On the triplet case."

There's no recognition in his eyes.

"So, you know, we need to get along. Be friends."

"You and Derek. Friends." Mark's expression is doubtful. "How much alcohol will that require?"

 _How long do you have?_

"None," I tell him primly. "It's not about that. It's about – moving forward. You know, being healthy, taking steps to – would you _stop_ that?"

"What?" he asks, with that freaking innocent expression again.

I move his hand pointedly away. "I said I'm done."

"Be done in the morning," he suggests. "No reason to waste a perfectly good – "

" _Mark._ "

"Fine." He lifts his hands, oh so innocent.

The truth is, I'm tired.

"You can't stay over," I tell him, which here in this unfortunate hotel dreamworld is usually enough to get him to stay.

(I'm not proud of it, but I'm not really in the mood to sleep alone, either.)

"Fine." He swings his legs out of bed, and I have a nice view of his bare back while he gets ready to walk out on me.

"You sure you want me to go?" he asks once he's finished stepping into his pants.

No.

Well, I'm sure it's a bad idea for Mark to stay over, but I'm also not sure I'm going to be able to sleep alone.

But there's no going back now.

"See you tomorrow," I tell him.

..

I'm tired when I wake up.

I'm tired of waking up.

Ignore that. I know how self-pitying it sounds. I know how _maybe this has gone too far, maybe you need help, maybe the treatment is more complicated than alcohol and sex._

My point is … I'm tired when I wake up.

I'm also alone.

I'm lying on one side of the big white bed – _my side,_ if we're talking about the bed I used to share with my husband. The other side is empty, but there's a dent in the pillow. It sounds like the beginning of a sappy romance or better yet a horror movie, but it's just the mark left behind before Mark left my room last night.

And yes, I let him screw me last night in the bed where Derek wouldn't let me screw him the night before. The same bed where Derek sat next to me to tell me our marriage was over, right after Mark screwed me in it for the first time.

If I tell you I know housekeeping changes the sheets every morning without fail, is it any less screwed up?

… I didn't think so.

When I study my face in the mirror I look too old for this kind of thing and too young to be this tired.

The fabulous black blouse I wore yesterday is still sitting in a puddle on the carpet by the entry to the bathroom, where I took it off last night under Mark's watchful eye.

I don't feel fabulous right now.

I feel a little nauseated, actually – which reminds me that I didn't eat dinner last night.

I take advantage of that to wear my skinny-skirt, the one that only gets airtime certain weeks of the month. It zips up with zero effort, so I guess that's something.

By which I mean … I have a lot of dresses.

Really great dresses.

Even after having to throw out a fair number of pieces from my wardrobe before I came to Seattle … I still have a lot of really great dresses.

But dresses are harder to put on by yourself.

Someone should write a book, _unexpected facts for the unlikely divorcee._ Maybe I'll write it in all the downtime I'm bound to have if I can actually keep Mark out of my bed. And one of those facts will be, _expect to wear a lot of skirts until you figure out how to zip your own dresses._

It's not that the skirt doesn't look good.

It looks good.

But it's the reason why my heels are tapping out the sound of _di-vorce,_ one-two, _a-lone_ , three-four on the marble floors of the lobby, or maybe it's actually Morse Code because I bump right into Mark waiting on line at the espresso bar like he was waiting for me all along.

(He wasn't. Mark Sloan doesn't _wait._ )

He doesn't say anything – he does buy my coffee, which I accept as payment for yesterday's dairy-filled disaster.

"You want a ride?" he asks finally when I find myself walking in semi-step with him toward the revolving doors. Of course he's had his car called up already.

"I don't know, can you keep your hands to yourself?"

"While I'm driving?" He raises an eyebrow. "How desperate do you think I am?"

"Don't ask me to answer that." I take a sip of coffee. It's not bad. "And as for the driving part … you do remember I've been in a car with you before, right?"

He pauses with one hand on the revolving door. "Oh yeah." He turns to smirk at me. "I definitely remember that." He taps a finger to his temple as if to remind me that he can call up any number of x-rated memories of me whenever he wants.

 _Great._ So much for power.

"Addison."

"Yeah?"

"You want a ride or not?"

..

I need to eat something.

I'm not a huge fan of breakfast – under some circumstances, like hungover circumstances for one, sure. But generally, food and I don't go that well together before I've at least downed a few cups of coffee.

But my body is apparently on the long list of people who are against me, because my stomach has an empty gnawing feeling that I should probably fill with … something.

My legs feel a little shaky, whether from keeping them crossed in the other direction from Mark's hand in the car – which is prone to wander, which I know won't surprise you – or just because I'm still tired in a way that sleep doesn't seem to fix.

So I'm staring into the big silver vat of porridge in the cafeteria waiting for inspiration.

It looks … gluey. But it should tide me over to lunch, at least. I pause, wondering if I should dump it back and find a yogurt instead.

"Are you serving that oatmeal or studying it for microbes?"

I glance over from the oatmeal bar to see Callie Torres, and I realize I'm still holding a full ladle of beige-colored glob in one hand, a paper cup in the other.

"I think microbes would give it more taste," I joke weakly. I'm trying to keep it casual but part of me is flat out excited to see her.

A friendly face.

I look back into the vat of oatmeal, which is beige and lumpy and far less friendly.

I realize how it looks – like another form of self-punishment. But food is fuel to me; always has been. It's pretty boring.

(Luckily, I have other ways of exacting self-penance, like liquor, and giving in to Mark.)

"Suit yourself." Callie grins at me. "Hey – we should have lunch later."

"Yeah?" I hear the hope in my voice and I hope she's not as disgusted by it as I am.

"Yeah. Not just because your breakfast is so uninspiring."

(She doesn't seem to be, thankfully.)

" … _but_ , partially because of that." Callie salutes me with her granola bar. "Does one work?" she suggests. "I have a case at two-thirty."

"Sure."

..

The nice thing about working – working a lot, working hard, working at the kind of work where not paying attention isn't an option, and being amazing at the work that you do – is that it's distracting.

It fills up those empty spaces and hours, keeps you from dwelling on your mistakes, your regrets and your past, your inability to walk down a hall most days without attracting stares and the depressing lack of space from the hardest thing you've ever had to deal with.

Or at least it's supposed to.

I have a meeting with Team Triplets in … a couple of hours. I need to prep, I need to review Eleanor's latest results. I have plenty of work to keep me busy and a merciful lunch date to bisect the day. So I should get started.

But for some reason – the same muscle memory that slipped those damn rings back on my fingers? – I find myself standing at the board instead.

There's _muscle memory_ again, or maybe just a regular memory: I'm standing in the same spot months ago, leaning back looking up at Derek hoping I don't look hopeful as I feel. Because hope makes you weak. He's congratulating me on signing my contract and I'm searching his face to see if he means it. _We're okay, right?_ That's what I asked him.

Ugh.

I could go back and _shake_ that version of me, leaning back against the wall to make herself a little smaller in case that's what Derek needed: to feel bigger.

We always took up the same amount of space, the two of us, but sometimes I think we took turns growing and shrinking like our marriage was Alice in fucking Wonderland.

 _Yeah, we're okay._

That's what he said.

(I'm not the only liar in my marriage.)

Our _marriage._ The thing that's over. The thing he didn't say was over, yesterday morning, in my hotel room, when we were dutifully acting out our parts.

He didn't say it.

He just – left.

And he still hasn't told me why.

And he's not on the board, and I know he's not rounding, and he's not in a department-level meeting because I'd be there too.

If I still know him, with nothing emergent, then he's in his office, drinking coffee and reviewing his charts.

There's a moment when I stand there daring myself – not sure if I'm daring myself to do it or _not_ to do it – and then I'm heading for the elevators.

..

"Hi."

His office door is open when I rap lightly on it, but he's closed – Derek has enough focus that a door is meaningless. If he's working, if he's immersed, nothing can interrupt.

He looks up from his chart. "Addison," he says, looking a little surprised to see me but not particularly hostile, which is … something, I guess.

There's a paper cup of coffee next to his hand.

"Derek."

He tilts his head a little when I don't start talking. "Is it the Rivers triplets?" he asks. "Did something happen?"

"No," I tell him quickly. "It's not the triplets. I just wanted to – um, to finish our conversation."

"Our conversation," he repeats. "From last night, you mean. About the triplets."

"Not about the triplets, Derek!"

He raises his eyebrows; I lower my voice so I sound a little less frustrated.

"Not about the triplets, Derek," I repeat, more calmly now. "Before the triplets, before all that … we were having a conversation."

 _A conversation._ It's a generous way to refer to that quick exchange: _Did you mean it? Yes._

"We were having a conversation?" He sounds genuinely curious.

"No," I admit. "But … well, kind of. We were having a – proto-conversation. Before you got paged, we were having a proto-conversation."

"A proto-conversation," he repeats. "I'm not sure I'm familiar with that one."

Really? Because he's had plenty of them. At least with me.

"Addison."

"Hm?"

"What is a … proto-conversation?"

"A proto-conversation is where we – don't talk. We're going to talk, and something gets in the way, or you get paged, or I get paged, or your mom calls …."

I stop talking for a second.

I guess that isn't going to be an issue anymore.

(My former mother-in-law probably has the Hallelujah Chorus on repeat just thinking about it.)

"A proto-conversation." Derek is still looking at me. "So that's what we've been having."

"Among other things," I concede.

He looks at me for a moment, and then gestures to the guest chairs in front of his desk.

"You want me to sit?" I sound doubtful because I am.

"You want a formal invitation?"

I consider it. "Maybe."

He shakes his head. "Addison … did you ever think the reason we have so many proto-conversations is that you can't get to the point?"

Ooh. That one lands.

He's not even trying to hurt me, but he's Derek. He gets all As without even having to try.

I pull out a chair to sit while I formulate my answer.

(Sitting takes a minute in my skinny-skirt. A minute, and the professional version of a … shimmy.)

"A conversation takes two people," I say finally, once I'm seated, "and so does a proto-conversation."

Derek doesn't answer.

"And so does a divorce."

"Ah." He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I figured we'd get there eventually."

" _We_ didn't get anywhere, Derek. I got … here. You're just sitting there waiting for me to do all the work so you can … judge it and act superior."

"That's what you think I do," he says. No question mark. Just like that.

"Yes. That's what I think you do." I fold my arms. "Go ahead and prove me wrong," I challenge him.

"How would you like me to do that, exactly?"

It's the polite version of what he hissed at me on the catwalk that day: _what do you want from me, Addison?_

It was my responsibility to tell him.

(I failed at it. I see that, I finally see that. Then, and now. But that's another story.)

Right now, right here, he's sitting at his desk with his legs crossed, his head cocked just enough that I think he might actually be listening. He's holding a pen in his hand now – stolen, no doubt, maybe it used to be mine – and drumming it every third beat on the desk. I could conduct a symphony to that predictable rhythm.

Maybe if I look closely in his desk drawers I'll find some other things he took from me. My dignity. Practically all of my thirties, and half my twenties too.

This _thing_ , as Mark called it. This _thing_ that's almost all of my adult life. Every year of my career from baby first-year to stalking the halls tormenting arrogant interns. Everything we did, even when we were apart, we did together.

He's still looking at me, waiting for an answer. Waiting for me to tell him what he can do to prove me wrong. To tell him what I want from him.

"Talk to me," I say finally, hating how small my voice sounds.

Here's the real answer, to a question no one asked me: I don't know how to picture my life without him as the center.

I just don't.

Whether he's in my bed or out of it, on my mind, halfway across the country while I close my eyes and try to fill myself with other things and other men … he's always been center.

That's Derek: his absence is louder than most people's presence.

And I don't know how to check out. I signed the papers, I said I wanted to be _amicable_ and _civil_ and all those things people say.

Those are words, that's all. Words that get said.

But I'm still me, and Derek is still Derek, and the way he's looking at me right now makes me think maybe – _maybe_ – he still remembers me.

Even if it's just a little.

"Talk to you." He leans back in his chair, raising his eyebrows. "I can do that."

 _Oh, you could have fooled me._

He's just looking at me across the desk and I feel like we need a drumroll and some tumbleweeds for what feels like an old west standoff.

No one says anything.

 _So much for talking._

"You're ready to talk?" he says, finally.

"Yeah. I'm ready to talk."

Okay, wait.

Before I go on, I need to admit something. Something you've probably already figured out.

I'm lying.

Right here, to Derek, I'm lying.

And I was lying to Mark last night too.

And they're not unrelated.

Because this _thing_ with Derek, it isn't over. It isn't over at all.

And I'm not _ready to talk._ Truthfully? I'm kind of terrified.

But I'm here, and Derek's here, an expectant expression on his face, waiting, and neither of us is getting paged and no one is interrupting us, so … here goes.

* * *

 _To be continued, obviously. I love these two even if they make each other - and us - miserable sometimes, but to paraphrase S2 Addison, at least they're talking about it? Stick with us and we will get you there. So. You know the drill. Reviews are my wine and my late-night Sloan visits, so make them happen, pretty please, and I'll get the next at-least-they're-talking chapter up as fast as I can._

Poetry credit to Margaret Atwood with heart-eye emojis galore.


	26. optimism

**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter. If you like a lot of Addison and Derek airtime, this chapter might be for you. I'm excited about the next few chapters, so I hope you're on board!

* * *

..  
Optimism  
..

* * *

So we're actually doing this.

We're actually going to talk.

I make myself start, before I lose my nerve.

"When we were talking, before – I asked you if you meant it. And you said yes."

Derek nods.

"You remember?"

He nods again.

"What did you mean when you said _yes_?" I ask him. I have a little thrill of adrenaline – excitement? Fear? I don't know – to actually say the words.

"What did you mean when you asked me if I meant it?" he counters.

It sounds like banter … but I'm starting to think they're both valid questions.

So I think about it before I answer.

"You were in my hotel," I say after a long pause. "You stayed, and you – said things."

He doesn't respond, but he's not looking away.

"Why?" I ask simply.

"I … don't know what to say."

"Oh."

"I could say that I care." His tone is tentative. "I _would_ say that. But the last time I said that, you pretty much tried to kill me, so …"

Right.

That night.

He actually looks serious.

"Sorry about that."

"You don't need to be sorry." He pauses. "It's probably good for you to – never mind," he says, maybe off my expression, and his own face says that he gets it's not his business anymore.

"We should probably forget that night ever happened."

(That's me, painting over the problems. That much hasn't changed.)

He studies me for a moment. "Do you want to forget it happened?"

"No," I admit.

"Okay." He leans back in his chair.

"Well. Maybe we could just forget the part where I threw myself at you." I try to keep my tone light so he thinks I'm kidding, and not that even raising it is pretty much enough to make me die of shame.

"Which time?" he asks.

" _Derek_."

"Just trying to lighten the moment." He tilts his head, his eyes dangerously soft for a moment.

"Derek …"

"Addison, it's fine. Really."

 _Everything fine, Addie. We're fine._

God, I should have had that printed on t-shirts and we could have worn them to sign the divorce papers.

In the silence I take a moment to look around his office. It's sterile, clean, no sign of me. He removed me from his life with surgical precision when he moved here and even when we were playing at reconciliation he never bothered to pretend in his office. He let me move my things into the trailer – grudgingly, but he did let me – and share his tiny kitchen cabinets and his bed. But I never made inroads in his office.

Here, in the characterless guest chairs I didn't pick out, Derek might as well be a stranger. I wonder what happened to the pictures of me, of us, from his office in New York.

And then I have a slightly less drunk version of the feeling I can recall from that night in the hotel room. How crazy and how normal it is, all at once, to be in a room with him. To sit in his office. How often have we done that?

It's different here, though.

It's definitely different from his offices in New York.

When he got his first department head upgrade we celebrated in the ergonomic chair I painstakingly picked from a German catalogue and when we broke the damn thing, Derek comforted me by swearing it was worth it, and offering to write a letter to the CEO attesting to it in as much detail as I would let him. While picking tiny, vintage brass screws out of my hair.

That was a good day.

The thing is, even if Derek doesn't remember it, I know it's true: it was a good marriage.

Overall, it was a good marriage.

And I miss it.

I miss _him_. Sometimes … I miss him a lot.

"Addison."

I look up.

"Why did you kiss me?" he asks.

"Which time?" I ask in return, echoing his words.

"Medical school," he says sarcastically, his expression lightening the tone somewhat.

Okay, then. So he means my hotel room.

"I don't know," I tell him.

"Was it because I was _just there?_ "

"What do you want me to say?" I ask.

"The truth might be a nice change," he says mildly.

I guess I walked into that one.

The thing is, there's no simple answer, is there?

"I was … sad," I tell him finally. I don't think I can meet his eyes right now.

"Because of me?"

I'm kind of shocked that he asked that.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask again, buying a little time.

"Addison."

I forgot he used to be really good at sussing out my time-buying strategies.

We used to be just plain _really good_ at each other.

And he's still waiting for an answer.

"Because … because of a lot of things, Derek." He's still just _looking_ at me, which is annoying. "Yes, including you. Divorce isn't exactly a walk in the park for most people – except in your case, that is."

"That's not fair," he says quietly.

"I know it's not fair. Why do you think it's so sad?"

"Addison."

" _Derek._ What do you want me to say?"

It's the third time I've used that expression. I used to know, better, what he wanted me to say.

He just shakes his head. "It's been a … strange week," he says.

Okay, understatement of the month. The year.

When he doesn't continue, I take a deep breath. Apparently it's a Shepherd free-for-all in here.

"Derek?"

He looks at me.

"Why did Meredith break up with you?"

"She didn't break up with me," he says stiffly.

Oh, I forgot how my husband loves technicalities. I cut back in before he can regale me with a treatise on the unconventional status of his relationship with his mistress.

(A little uncharitable, I know. Sorry.)

"Okay, fine. Why did she … " I wave my hand as descriptively as possible. "Why aren't you together?" I ask finally.

Derek studies his hands for a moment. "I was distracted … that's what she said. Moody."

I swallow my automatic response; no use teasing him when he looks so down about it. But really, was that the first time she noticed? They can't have spent that much time together.

He looks up at me. "She told me that she ended things, with the vet. And I guess I didn't – react the way she wanted."

Interesting. I don't say anything.

"It was right after you told me you stayed with Mark, in New York," he says. "Actually _right_ after."

Oh. _Oh._

"So it was my fault."

"It was." He almost smiles, then pauses. "No. It's, uh, it was my fault too."

I'm pretty sure I can hear angels singing.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" I ask tentatively. "For her to break up with the vet?"

"Obviously it's what I wanted." He sounds a little impatient, but not angry. "I was just – caught off guard."

Right.

Because of me. Apparently I wrong-footed him right out of his dreamy relationship with his girlfriend, and that was before we even stepped into the supply closet. Before the _strange week._

"Did you explain to her what had – "

"Seriously?" He cuts me off, raising an eyebrow. "You're going to give me relationship advice?"

"No." I feel defensive again.

"So you're just backseat driving, then."

"Forget it." Let him moody-and-preoccupied another relationship away. I don't care.

I don't.

(I don't want to, anyway. Which should count.)

"As long as we're on the topic of … dating," he says, "are you still sleeping with Mark?"

And we're off to the races again.

The seconds before I answer feel long and weighty.

"No." I pause. There's no reason to be honest, but something compels me to anyway. "Not since last night, anyway," I admit.

"Right." He looks down at the desk. "I hope you were less intoxicated than the night before, at least."

"I was."

With alcohol, anyway.

"Derek … ."

"Addison, it's fine. What you choose to do, and with whom, is your business … now that we're divorced, to be clear," he can't seem to help adding.

I don't know how to explain to him that I'm not _choosing_ it. Not really. It's … choosing me.

"It's not like that," I say, for lack of any clearer explanation.

"Let me guess," he says drily. "He was just … there."

"You guessed it." I wonder if I sound amused instead of depressed.

Or if it's weird that I can be both, here in this room with Derek.

"Addison." He shakes his head a little.

"What?"

"Why did you drink so much, that night?"

He doesn't have to clarify which night.

"Why did you drink so much the night before that?"

"Answering a question with a question," he observes mildly.

"Isn't that better than dodging it altogether?"

"Another question." He tilts his head a little, looking at me.

"Another dodge." I pause the sparring. "Derek … how about answering it instead?" I dare myself to continue. "Why did you drink so much that night?"

"To forget?" he offers, the same joke from the bar. It makes me wonder how much else he remembers.

"To forget what?"

"Addison … it's an expression."

"I'm aware." I lean forward a little in my chair. I feel like we're close to … something. I don't know what. Actually talking? But actually … I think we're doing that already. "You were angry," I propose, "about the … procedure."

"About how you manipulated me, you mean?" He raises his eyebrows. "And Meredith … and Alex Karev."

"You're really concerned about Alex Karev?" It's my turn to raise an eyebrow.

He just looks at me for a minute.

Okay, fine, now I'm the one deflecting.

"I wasn't manipulating you," I tell him.

"You were."

"You were interfering – "

"I was trying to help, Addison."

"No, you weren't." I'm suddenly very tired. "I can tell when you're trying to help. Remember?" It's pretty much exactly what I told him when we talked about Baby C.

"Maybe." He studies my face. "Can you tell when you need help?"

"Maybe," I repeat. "Maybe not. But that doesn't change anything about Hannah Fowler's procedure."

He doesn't say anything.

"You thought I was going to get … Meredith, and Alex Karev, into trouble? That's why you drank so much? Because you didn't know I had sign-off?"

"Don't say I _didn't know_ you had sign-off like it was an omission," Derek says, his voice clipped. "You chose to hide that fact. To manipulate me, to make me look foolish."

"That's not why." My voice is faint, and he ignores it and continues talking.

"You succeeded. You made me look foolish, and I was concerned about you, Addison. Before that, I was concerned. That's why I went to Richard. That's why I asked Meredith to …." He stops talking. "That was another mistake."

His voice is quiet enough on that last line that I almost miss it.

"But why were you concerned? Because of … what happened in New York?"

I don't want to say her name. I don't think I have, out loud, since that day. If we talked about it, when we were married – and we very rarely did – it was Vivian who we named. _The day Vivian came over._

He's quiet.

"Derek. That was a long time ago."

His face looks closed, and he doesn't say anything.

"And it wasn't the same as … Hannah Fowler's situation. It was completely different."

"That's your story," he says.

"It _is_ my story." I'm a little confused.

"No." He looks up at me. " _Your_ story is your story."

I'm still trying to parse the words when he speaks again.

"You weren't the only one there," he says, his voice tight. "In the ER, in our … house. You weren't the only one there."

"I know that." I feel like I'm missing something, but there's something raw in his eyes that actually makes me feel a little frightened.

Not that he's going to hurt me, not that kind of frightened.

More frightened about how much we've both been hurt.

"Derek …. "

"You're still sleeping with Mark," he says, and I let him change the subject. God knows I don't like harping on things that make me uncomfortable either. And we're not married anymore, so we don't have to try to make each other have the hard conversations.

Right?

"When I can't avoid it," I tell him, wondering if it sounds like I'm kidding.

"Can't you use your … influence on him to get him to move back to New York?" Derek asks.

 _Oh, if only I could._

"I tried. Believe me."

"Maybe if you kept your clothes on?" he asks. His voice is relatively light but the words still sting.

I'm this close to deflecting with a crack about just how much damage Mark can do when everyone is still technically fully clothed.

"It doesn't matter what I do with my clothes," I tell Derek. "Mark isn't here for me."

"What does that mean?"

"He's here for you, Derek."

"For me."

He looks unimpressed, even a little nauseated.

"Unlike you, Addison, and probably most of the nurses here … I can resist Mark's charm, or what passes for charm anyway."

I can't argue with that.

"He misses you. Mark does. It's obvious."

Derek doesn't say anything.

"Mark thinks we can't be friends," I blurt.

"You and Mark?" Derek looks a little confused.

"No … you and me."

"Oh." He leans back in his chair, surveying me for a moment.

"You don't disagree?" I ask.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't say you didn't."

He frowns slightly. "I didn't say I didn't … not disagree? You might have lost me."

 _I know. That's the whole problem._

I take a deep breath. "Derek, I … want to be able to work together."

"Well, as long as you're staying in Seattle," and he pauses here as if to give me the opportunity to make his day by offering to go back to Manhattan, "we probably don't have a choice."

"I mean work together … well." I pause. "Work well together. Like we used to."

 _Used to_ is so dangerous, isn't it? With the two of us?

"We're working together now," he reminds me. He looks like he might have something else to say, but he doesn't say it.

"I know."

He glances at his watch. "We're meeting together, in fact, in … an hour," he says. "I have some things I need to do before then."

I'm dismissed. I get it.

"Right. So do I." I stand up, with a little extra effort due to skinny-skirt limitations. "So I guess I'll see you in – "

"I do care," he interrupts me. His voice is quiet, but he doesn't sound unsure. "In your story, where I'm the – bad guy, I don't. I'm just … I'm interfering, and I don't care. You've made that clear. But you asked me why I came to your hotel room, and why I stayed, and you haven't listened to my answer. You haven't heard my story at all."

I take a minute to take this in. Haven't heard _his_ story – Derek has always been the architect of his own story. The narrator of our marriage, hasn't he? Certainly the end of it.

And anyway, everyone hears Derek.

I don't think it's occurred to me that Derek – Derek _Shepherd_ , that Derek – could ever feel unheard.

"You told me you wanted me out of your life," I remind him.

"I know." His eyes look soft, worryingly so. "And you told me you wanted me out of yours," he reminds me in turn.

We both contemplate that.

And, I guess, how _still in_ we seem to be.

"Being divorced is …" His voice trails off. "It's complicated. For most people, it's new, too. Why do they offer marriage counseling? Maybe divorce counseling makes more sense."

My eyes widen.

"As a concept," he says quickly, as if to make sure I didn't think he actually wanted to go to therapy with me.

God help the therapist subjected to the two of us. I'm pretty sure the guy we saw last year has retired and moved to Fiji – on our money alone, he could probably get a pretty nice place.

"Yeah." I look down at my hands. "Actually, that's not a bad idea."

I don't know what else to say. I wish I didn't worry that every conversation we have will be the last one.

I have an embarrassing sense memory of being little and following the nanny down the back staircase when she was trying to leave for her day off – I don't know what I was asking, probably for her to braid my hair or help me with something, just to get her to keep talking so she wouldn't leave.

(Remember that I never said I wasn't a cliché.)

Derek used to be someone I thought would never leave. He showed up, over and over. He was _there_. For so many things.

When he stopped, I had to get used to seeing him as … someone who left.

Seattle has messed with my head. Derek, in my hotel room, messed with my head. We're divorced and for the first time since before he left New York I'm starting to remember what it was like when he was actually there.

Which is messed up.

Very messed up.

Even for us.

He's looking up at me – still sitting down in his chair, but leaning back a little so he can see me now that I'm standing above him. His gaze is open, without hostility, and I see him.

I recognize him.

It leaves me feeling a little stripped down, raw, in a way that stings.

It's a little weird, isn't it? The two of us, talking like this.

No one's yelling.

No one's crying.

Maybe we _can_ actually be friends.

Except I think if we were friends it wouldn't hurt so much to look into his eyes right now. Like I need those pinhole glasses to protect me from an eclipse.

"See you in the meeting," I tell him, and pretend that my racing heart as I close his office door behind me is relief that our conversation didn't break down.

..

"We're going out tonight," Callie announces without preamble, sliding her lunch tray next to mine.

I've been picking through a salad while I go over the events of this morning, from the conversation in Derek's office to the surprisingly uneventful meeting of Team Triplets. _Wait another day,_ that's what we decided, the three of us.

Easily and agreeably. So I couldn't even get out my frustrations by fighting with either of them.

(Not like I think Walter would fight back. He'd probably just, like, defuse the situation. And do a pretty good job of it too.)

So yeah. Eleanor's holding steady, there's no fluid buildup in Baby C or weakening of Baby A or Baby B. We have another twenty-four hours until the next fetal MRI and I can't complain about that.

Buying time, punting decisions?

It's tricky in medicine, but it's more or less my calling card, otherwise.

"Addison. You in there?" Callie waves a hand in front of my face.

"Yes, sorry." I focus on her; it's grey and a little misty out here, of course, and some of the hair escaping her ponytail is starting to curl. "What were you saying?"

"I was _saying_ that we should get that drink tonight. Remember? The one we keep postponing. Screw postponing. I'm not on call tonight, you're not – any late cases?"

I shake my head. "Unless something changes."

"The universal surgical disclaimer." She grins at me. "So it's a date, then?"

"Yeah, okay." I push a piece of green pepper to the side of my plate. "It's a date."

..

Mark corners me by the nurses' station as I'm trying to finalize my charts so I can actually leave – for all the world like a person with a life outside the hospital who has, like, plans and stuff.

"I have plans tonight," that's what I tell him with dignity when he reminds me that he drove me to work this morning and, in Mark Logic, that means he's driving me back to the hotel and presumably doing all sorts of unmentionable things to me once we get there.

"Plans?" Mark raises his eyebrows. "What kind of plans are those? And with who?"

I don't answer.

"With _whom_ ," he amends, giving me a little half a wink at _whom_ like he thinks it will turn me on to hear a man correct his own grammar.

(No comment on whether he's right.)

"I'm getting a drink with Callie Torres," I tell him. "If that's all right with you."

It's none of his business, but saying it out loud makes it true and hell, if someone in Seattle thinks I have a friend … is that so bad?

"Oh, it's more than all right with me."

He's grinning at me, that slow smile that reminds me how little self-control I have around him. Which isn't an excuse for using him like a drug and failing to quit every time.

But it's a reason.

"In fact … I highly encourage it. Can I come along?"

"No."

"Oh, come on, Addison. You're always invited on my dates."

I wrinkle my nose. I don't really want to remember just how many _dates_ Mark has had since coming to Seattle. It's not jealousy, exactly. It's also not purely concern for the kind of STIs that slither past the most religiously rolled condoms. It's … I don't know. Something in between.

"Leave me alone," I tell him, keeping my voice even. "I have things to do before I leave, Mark, and you're distracting me."

"So you admit that I'm distracting."

He grazes my hip, just barely, reaching past me to take a pen off the counter. I inhale a little at his touch, which he notices based on his smirk.

"I'd say _give it up_." His voice is very close to my ear, making me shiver in spite of myself at the warm puff of air from his lips. "But I think we can all agree that ship sailed a long time ago."

He's not wrong.

I gave up a lot.

I gave up everything. And looking at Mark's face just reminds me how much that was, and how much I miss it.

I stand very still, like I'm trying to trick a bee into leaving me alone. It works; he actually buzzes off, but not without leaving a sting behind.

..

"So … two crazy choices, and two … not-great ones?" Callie is looking at me over the rim of her glass. "That kind of sucks."

It's blunt, but not inaccurate. I've finished filling her in on the Rivers triplets to the extent ethics allows, and she's surprised me by listening and … getting it. Almost like she cares.

(This is how Derek and I used to talk about our cases. I'm not saying I want to marry Callie Torres, just that it's pretty damn nice to have someone actually care about what I'm doing for once. What I'm saying. And not just as a way to get me into bed.)

"Right," I tell her.

She props her elbows on the bar – it's kind of dark and sticky in here, it smells like well drinks and Barkeepers' Friend and someone's perfume that keeps wafting down the air whenever the door opens.

The door opens a lot – this place is a little more populous than I would have chosen. Plus, I'm pretty sure Mark and I dragged Derek off the stool that's currently empty next to me tonight, and I don't particularly want to think about that night, either.

But I do want to be here, I remind myself – I want to be friends with Callie. I want to talk to someone in Seattle who doesn't have a history with me.

Maybe I can actually be someone new.

"And your ex-husband is on the case, too," Callie observes.

… yeah, being someone new isn't likely.

I just nod. I'm sipping my drink, slowly.

(It's gin and soda. I know, I know. Even Callie looked unimpressed at my order, and suggested that I could use the calories in tonic. And I'm not going to lie, I'll take being called thin anytime, but G&Ts are my father's drink and that's not anything I can handle right now.)

"You know what, Addison? Your life is definitely not boring."

She's smiling at me and it's almost … a compliment. Maybe she's right.

My _life_ here in Seattle, if you can call it that … well, it's definitely confusing.

Confusing, and lonely. A lot of the time, it's lonely. Painful, sometimes, and not just those damn shower bruises that I'm pretty sure are going to leave permanent marks at this point.

"Is that a good thing?" I hate how uncertain I sound.

"Life? Considering the alternative?" Callie raises her eyebrows. "Yeah, I'd say it's a pretty good thing."

I like her optimism.

I'm not sure I'm convinced … but I like it.

The door opens again – a gust of air, the perfume from the woman sitting down the bar.

It's Meredith Grey and her friends; she doesn't see me, not right away, and I'm half-turned toward Callie anyway. But then I see that it's not just a pack of interns, though I recognize Izzie Stevens – who hates me – and Alex Karev, who is probably in that club again too.

And behind them, propping the door with one hand so they can enter first, is Derek. Meredith turns back to say something to him and I see from my vantage point that he's smiling.

My stomach is hollow – for no reason, for a stupid reason – and all I can do is pray that he doesn't see me.

The thing is, I may have liked Callie's optimism … but there's a reason I'm not an optimist myself.

So what happens next shouldn't really surprise me.

* * *

 _To be continued, of course, picking right up from here. Thank you for reading!_


	27. bargains

**Thank you so much for your reviews on the previous chapter! I'm really enjoying writing this story, even when Addison is having a tough time. I'm excited about what's coming up in this story, and I hope you enjoy it too.**

* * *

 _..  
Bargains  
.._

* * *

Here's what happens next: Derek walks into Joe's with Meredith Grey and her intern gang while Callie and I are having a drink, and we all nod at each other – politely and professionally – and move on with our pleasant, unremarkable evenings.

Or that's how it would happen for someone else, anyway.

But not for me.

I don't get _pleasant, unremarkable evenings_ and I'm pretty sure if you asked Derek he'd say you forfeit the right to evenings like that when you screw your husband's best friend in his not-favorite-sheets.

So here's what actually happens next: Derek sees me and does a sort of a double take and when he lets go of the door those stupid bells jingle loudly like they're mocking us.

Callie turns around to see what I'm seeing and I'm pretty sure she's judging me except she's not, she's exchanging a look with Karev that I don't understand. Stevens looks like she'd rather be drinking somewhere Satan-free and Derek looks worse but somehow Grey seems fine.

Self-possessed.

Maybe it's the expression of someone who's won.

"I need another drink," I mutter to Callie, who looks down and notices that I've barely made it halfway through my gin and soda.

That's not the point, of course. Derek is approaching the bar now like the Pied Piper with a trail of interns and I either need to drink more or throw up. Now.

As in right now.

Callie seems to get it. "Let's move," she says. "Hey, Joe? We're moving to a table."

"Just like that, huh?" Joe is smiling at us, though. "For such good customers … take any table in the house."

Callie is joking with him a little while I try to get down from the barstool without falling on my face.

And then we leave the bar and its less than welcome occupants behind and sit down at a sticky little two-top. I wish we were drinking somewhere else, somewhere more pleasant.

Like hell, maybe?

Seriously, though, I should break into my trust fund – which I don't ever plan to touch until I figure out what charity would piss Bizzy off the most and donate the whole thing there – and build a freaking ice palace next door to Joe's just to have a memory-free place to drink. Of course I wouldn't want to put Joe out of business. He's actually decent to me. I guess I could move his bar, and then –

"Addison." Callie is looking at me curiously. "You okay?" She slides my drink toward me a little like it's medicine.

 _Oh, just fantasizing ways to throw money at all the problems I've created for myself, but I know they wouldn't work. Nothing works._

"I'm fine." I take a sip.

Even though sips are like putting a bandaid on a spurting arterial wound. I sip anyway and try to recapture the feeling I had before Derek reminded me that he's moved on. Despite what he said in his office, the suggestion that maybe our divorce wasn't quite as much fun for him as he's been making it seem … he's fine. He's Derek, and he's always fine.

But before he got here, when Callie and I were talking, and I was a person instead of a walking car crash, things were different.

So I sip and prop my head in my hand to block my peripheral vision. I don't want to see where Derek and Meredith go next.

The vision-blocking works well.

Maybe too well.

"Room for one more?"

Ugh. He's leaning over both our chairs at once. The bar is too loud to hear him at once. Mark should have to wear a bell like they put on cats who can't be trusted not to kill birds.

(Is that why Joe has bells on the front door? I'll have to ask him sometime.)

"No," I say without turning around.

"That's okay, I have a good view from here of my two favorite girls." Mark sounds amused. Mark always sounds amused.

"You mean _any_ _two girls_ ," I correct him. I turn a little without meeting his eyes. "And actually … we're women."

"You certainly are," he agrees, and there's a lascivious twinkle in his eyes when I look at him. Okay, fine, I handed him that one. But I'm not handing him anything else.

"Did you want something, Mark?"

Look, it's not my fault that everything sounds like the lead-in to a double entendre when Mark is in the room.

Somehow, he doesn't rise.

(No comment.)

"I wanted to sit," he says. "But it might be a tight squeeze." He indicates the lack of room between our two chairs.

Thank goodness for tiny-table favors.

"That's too bad. I guess you'll have to move on, then." I take another sip of my drink.

"But I wouldn't mind dancing," he says.

My eyes widen; I can't help it. This isn't exactly a _dancing_ kind of place. I mean, there's a jukebox, and there are drunk people, which can add up to dancing under some circumstances. There's also a dartboard in fairly consistent use, and even in a bar packed with doctors I can imagine that flying darts plus drunk dancing rarely turns out well.

"Dancing?" I repeat, even though I wasn't going to engage.

"Dancing. You've heard of it, right?" He looks at me in that way he does, without words, that reminds me of all the things I've let him do to me. I look down at my drink.

"There's a jukebox. There's a nice empty dance floor."

 _Dance floor_ is pushing it. There's a patch of empty floor in front of the jukebox, fine. No one else is dancing.

Callie and I exchange a look.

"Dance with me," Mark says, glancing from one of us to the other.

"No, thank you," I say politely.

Callie nods. "Go find someone who doesn't know better," she adds.

Mark actually looks _hurt_ for a moment – or maybe I imagined it, because he smirks at us both and saunters off without saying another word.

I'm sure it won't take him long to find someone who'll say yes. It rarely does.

..

So this drinking slowly thing.

It's a little weird.

It means I'm still conscious of everything that happens around me, which kind of sucks when what happens around you … tends to suck.

Callie actually finishes her drink before I do. She doesn't know me well enough (yet?) to realize how surprising that is.

(See? Someone can have a front seat to my terrible sexual decisions and still be surprised by how many other parts of my life I can screw up.)

I offer to get her a refill and it goes off without a hitch.

… in my head.

"Addison."

That's what actually happens. My name, in his voice. He has so many different ways of saying it – just three syllables, or two if he's feeling the nickname. I could always get the measure of him just from how he pronounced it.

This time it's a one-word, three-syllable, begin-and-end greeting. Hello and goodbye all at once.

So I take his cue and nod, even though I'm stuck standing next to him at the bar.

"Derek," I say.

He orders a beer without making eye contact and it's my fault. I'm the next one to speak, even though it's his turn. Double volley, double fault.

"I guess Joe didn't blacklist you after the other night."

I meant it as a joke – I think – but it comes out more like a challenge.

Derek glances at me. "Apparently Joe believes in second chances."

"At least someone does."

"Usually people who haven't been burned," Derek says.

I guess I deserve that.

He doesn't say it viciously, just sort of … tiredly. I could almost think, for a second, that he's as exhausted by all of this, by everything, as I am.

But then I remember the way he smiled at Meredith when he held the door open for her.

Derek isn't tired.

Derek is … bright and shiny.

"So this means things are better with Meredith?" I try to ask it brightly. And … shinily, which I'm pretty sure isn't actually a word.

Derek looks confused for a moment.

"You're on a date with her," I prompt him.

"A date." He looks at me for a moment, then takes a sip of his beer. "It must have been a while for you if you think this is a date," he says.

"It has been a while." I raise my eyebrows. "I was married for eleven years."

 _In case you've forgotten._

He grimaces. "It's not a date."

"You would know." I glance over at where the interns are huddled near the dartboard. Maybe they're picturing Derek's face when they throw the darts. Maybe they'll let me play.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're the one dating."

"And if I were … what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." I remember why I'm here and order Callie's drink, then turn back to Derek. "It's good that you're … moving on."

He turns fully to look at me, his eyebrows raised. "Did I miss the part where screwing Mark without dating him makes you morally superior?"

"I didn't say I was morally superior."

"Good," he mutters, taking a sip of his drink.

"And I'm not screwing him. Not anymore."

Derek doesn't respond to that with anything more than a raised eyebrow. I've been married to him long enough that we can speak whole sentences that way. Paragraphs, even. So I read it loud and clear: _You already admitted to me this morning that you slept with him last night._

"I didn't say _you_ were morally superior either," I point out.

"Addison." He shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. "Believe it or not ... I came here tonight to have a quiet drink."

I open my mouth, then close it again. I realize I'm not sure whether he's saying he wasn't on a date, or just trying to get rid of me.

Either way, I guess I can give him that.

At least I have Callie so I don't have to sit alone.

..

But when I get back to our little table, fisting a new drink for Callie … it's empty.

I'm confused until I look over to the jukebox and see that she apparently stopped saying no once I wasn't there to back her up.

(I know that feeling well.)

She's dancing with Mark.

They're dancing closely in that way that's not _quite_ sex with your clothes on – because Mark can do that too, so I know what that looks like – but isn't so far off either. I don't know that I would have though Callie was Mark's type, if you'd asked me a few weeks ago, but I can tell just from the way she moves her hips to whatever stupid song is playing on the jukebox that she knows what she's doing.

She wasn't going to sleep with him again. Wasn't that our semi-spoken pact, our No More Mark Sloan pact? I mean sure, I slept with him last night, but I still think that was a fluke. She's turned her back to him, moving against him with his big hands skating over her hips and I guess she's going to be breaking the pact too.

I'm watching them, and – okay, it's kind of hot, but in a weird way, like I'm watching myself. I guess this is what _I'm never sleeping with Mark Sloan again_ looks like from the outside.

It looks like giving up.

It feels like it too.

I pull out my chair and sit down – alone, which really shouldn't surprise me at this point.

I take a sip of the gin and soda that's getting muted with melted ice. I resist the urge to gulp. I play a little game with myself – _if I wait a full minute between sips, things will be better in the morning._

Surgeons are superstitious. I used to do this when I was a kid, too.

 _If I hold my breath for sixty seconds in the bath, the new nanny will stay longer than a month. If I brush my hair a hundred times before bed, I won't trip in ballet class ever again._ _If I keep really quiet about what I saw, I'll actually get an ice cream cone the next time._

It never actually kept bad things from happening, though. Bad things happen all the time.

I keep up my end of the bargain. By the time I finish my drink, we're three songs into the Mark and Callie Show … but there's no indication anything is going to be better in the morning.

Figures.

"Is this seat taken?"

I look up to see Derek tapping the back of the chair next to me. I mean, I recognized his voice before I saw him, of course, but he doesn't need to know that.

"I guess not," I say, indicating the impromptu dance floor.

Derek watches Mark and Callie for a moment, dancing in one sinewy tangle of limbs.

"Did you warn her about – "

"Of course I did. And she warned me right back," I tell him.

"Ah." Derek takes a sip of his drink. "But they're still … ?" He gestures, just a little flutter of his hand that could mean anything but here, I have to assume, means _about to screw._

"Yeah. They're … still." I reach for his bottle of beer, even though I don't like this brand – it's a moment that's begging for alcohol – and then make a face.

"Why do you do that it if you don't like it?" he asks, not for the first time.

There's no answer for that. Why _wouldn't_ I take a sip of his drink?

He glances at the dance floor, then back at me. "You want your own drink?" he asks abruptly.

"What happened to thinking I'm an alcoholic?"

"I never said you were an alcoholic."

"Yeah, but you thought it."

His mouth twitches like he's going to laugh. "I'm offering to get you a drink," he says. "I'm not offering to get you the bottle. Is that consistent with your recollection?"

"Make it a double, at least."

He smiles a little bit.

It's not a double, though.

It _is_ a gin and soda and I'm grudgingly impressed. Two limes and everything. I guess he remembers that I like my mouth to pucker when I'm wallowing. Why shouldn't everything be as bitter as I feel?

"Thanks for the drink."

"You're welcome."

I don't know why I'm so surprised every time he remembers anything. I guess it's because he spent most of the time I've been in Seattle acting like he'd forgotten our whole marriage.

The chairs are set up so we can either talk closely – like Callie and I were doing – or face outward and watch Mark and Callie attempts to take each other's clothes off through sheer hands-free friction alone.

"You think they're going to leave together?" I ask.

"I hope so," Derek says. "Better than doing it right here."

I almost laugh around the rim of my glass. I forget, sometimes, how much we used to laugh together.

Then I find myself watching Meredith Grey and her friends again, from my vantage point of this little table where I'm shoulder to shoulder with Derek. We're not touching and I wouldn't say we're _friends_ but … we're sitting together.

Maybe it's seeing Meredith but I get an unwelcome memory of the same bar – same table, maybe? – and Meredith knitting and declaring her celibacy.

(We all know how well that turned out, but bear in mind the only person who's worse at declaring celibacy than she is would be – well – me.)

I walked away from them, that night. After declaring how we were all _friends._ I'm embarrassed for that woman, the one who was still playing at reconciliation. Then again, Derek came back to our table. He left her and sat down next to me and it was little bits of hope he doled out like the stale peanuts on Joe's bar – that kept me hungry.

"What's wrong with your drink?" Derek asks, frowning a little.

It's actually perfect, but I guess the fact that I've barely taken two sips shocks him. Maybe I do drink too much.

"Nothing's wrong with it. I'm taking my time."

"Ah." Derek sips his own drink. "That's new."

"People can change."

He opens his mouth to reply to that – probably to point out my hypocrisy – and then Mark just goes ahead and proves me wrong anyway when he seems to catch sight of me from the dance floor.

"Addison!" Mark calls. He indicates the quasi-dance floor with a nod of his head. "Don't be a wallflower."

I make a face. It's kind of hard to hear him over the music, but he manages.

I turn to roll my eyes at Derek, but his chair is empty.

Okay, then.

Another song starts.

"There's still room for one more," Mark says now, loudly enough for me to hear him. "Come on, we can fit you in before we … leave."

Callie catches my eye and makes a face, kind of like apology, or embarrassment, or something. I smile at her like I don't care that she's about to go fuck the man who helped me destroy what was left of my marriage.

But this means she's definitely planning on leaving with him.

So I do the thing you're supposed to do, the girl thing, and march up to them.

"How drunk are you?" I ask Callie.

"How drunk are _you_?" Mark responds before Callie can, freeing one hand from her waist and landing it on mine.

"Not drunk at all, unfortunately." I push his hand away. "Seriously, Callie – "

"Seriously, Addie," she repeats, smiling at me, "it's fine."

When did she start calling me Addie?

"Okay, you satisfied yet, _Mom_?" Mark raises an eyebrow at me. "You want a breathalyzer too?"

"You'd fail," I tell him. "I hope you're not planning to drive."

"Already called a taxi," he says. "One step ahead of you, huh?"

I don't know about that – but it's true that I feel a step behind.

Then I remember then that Mark was my ride to work this morning. I guess I'll be calling my own taxi to get back to the hotel.

Which is just great. I don't even have my leased car that still smells like the dealership to drive to my hotel room. Everything I do tonight is going to be temporary. And blank. And depressing.

And Callie is drunk, but she's not _that_ drunk.

Still, I linger.

"It's okay, really." She's apparently noticed I'm still there. "Hey, let's have breakfast tomorrow," she says.

"You might be otherwise occupied tomorrow morning," Mark warns her, and she laughs.

I wrinkle my nose.

"Give it up, Addison." Mark shakes his head. "Stop playing babysitter, that's not you. You used to be _fun_."

He doesn't know me, not anymore. That's what I want to say.

I don't say anything, though, because I feel one of his big hands on my waist and then he's pulled me in close, and his body is hard against mine – there's so much of him and I can feel the softness of Callie's body on my other side.

And with one flash that I remember from drunken nights in college while I was still figuring out my limits – I start to wonder what's going to happen next.

I step outside myself like I'm a rather interesting novel, _oh, see the adulteress now_ , and I have no idea.

I can't control it.

I can't decide it.

I can just … let it happen. Whatever _it_ is.

"Addison."

I look up, still somehow in this weird hypnotic sway with the lights from the foggy jukebox making all of us look a little blue, and Derek is standing a foot away.

He doesn't say anything other than my name. It kind of brings home that this isn't a dance floor at all. It's just a patch of sticky at a crappy hospital-adjacent bar and I'm – I don't even know what – dancing? _Snuggling_? With Mark and Callie and god knows who can see us.

My face floods with heat.

"I wanted to see if she was okay," I tell Derek, even though he didn't ask for an explanation. Not out loud, anyway. I'm still pressed up between Mark and Callie and I try not to remember what happened the last time Derek found me this close to Mark.

If Mark's bothered by it all, there's no evidence. He just turns the clump of us so that I can't see Derek anymore, only a wedge of the bar between Mark's shoulder and Callie's. There's a dark-haired woman who looks vaguely familiar sitting right in my line of vision, talking to a man I don't recognize. _God_ , I hope she's not one of my residents.

"She's fine," Mark is saying, presumably to Derek. "They're both fine."

"Maybe Callie's fine," Derek says evenly. "I don't know. I don't know her."

"Shepherd, Torres. Torres, Shepherd." Mark is grinning; I can't see his face since he's talking to Derek but I can actually feel the movement of his jaw. "There. Now you know each other."

Derek doesn't say anything but I can actually feel the change in the air when he starts moving. Right before he says my name again.

He walks around so that I can see him. "Addison, don't do this."

It's like a splash of cold water or waking up from a bad dream.

He's right.

He's so right and I push on Mark with both my hands to try to extricate myself but it's like trying to shove a brick wall. "Mark. _Mark._ "

He just pulls me closer. "Derek can cut in later," he says, close to my ear, "but he has to learn to wait his turn."

Ugh. I push him again. "Would you just – "

"Mark," Derek says sharply, and he's suddenly a lot closer than a foot away. "She said no."

"I forgot who's here," Mark raises his eyebrows. "The white knight, riding in on his horse to save the day. Maybe he won't actually trample the fair maid on his way out this time."

The metaphor is kind of jumbled but Derek seems to take something from it. There's a prickle in the air between Mark and Derek that feels different from the closeness I saw when Mark was nursing his hangover.

I decide to intercede before they can blame me for screwing up their friendship again.

"Derek …"

But if he hears me, there's no indication. His focus is on Mark, and they're somehow squaring off and it feels a little dangerous, a little testosterone-y for my taste even with the simultaneous elements of the ridiculous: there's a song blaring from the jukebox that I'm fairly certain is Top 40 from about ten years ago and still manages to be an earworm, and Mark is still holding onto both Callie and me, and Callie's eyes are half closed as she sways to the music.

She's the only one still dancing.

" _Mark_ ," he says again.

And then Derek is shoving Mark and it seems to work better than when I did it, because I'm ducking away from Mark and then Mark is shoving Derek back and I'm getting the back of someone's elbow and the floor is damp as well as sticky so I skid, of course I skid, it's just my luck, and I end up on the floor.

"Addison!"

They're both kneeling next to me, one on either side.

Finally, the attention is on me.

"Addison, are you okay?"

Callie sounds worried. She's crouching at my head.

"I'm fine."

It's true, although my tailbone is already throbbing. I'm more worried about what the floor is doing to my skirt. I'll have to burn it, and based on how the floor smells up close that might not even be enough.

When I look up, Derek and Mark are each holding out a hand.

God, when did my life become an R-rated version of _The Lady and the Tiger_?

I look from one to the other.

Then I put my left hand in Derek's and my right hand in Mark's and let them pull me to my feet together.

..

Derek ends up driving me back to the hotel.

He's had _one drink_ , as he does, and it's fine. I'm not really injured - but I don't say no.

"Callie only had two drinks," I tell him. I don't know why I'm trying to defend myself. As much as I've decided she's the closest thing to a friend I have in Seattle, I don't really know her that well.

And Derek? We all know how little he thinks of me. There's no reason to assure him I wouldn't leave a compromised woman in Mark's hands.

Derek glances at me when stoplights illuminate the car, but he doesn't say anything.

I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his jeep with my knees basically at my chin. I know Derek notices but he doesn't say anything; we both know who sat in this seat most recently and she takes up a hell of a lot less room. But I don't want to move the seat. Not when my presence in the jeep is temporary. It's basically a taxi, that's all.

A free taxi.

Free financially, that is. Emotionally is a different story.

Emotionally is always a different story, which is why I recommend avoiding emotions at all cost. If only I could take my own advice …

When he pulls up at the drop-off spot at the Archfield, I can tell we're both avoiding thinking of his last visit to this hotel.

"Thanks," I say without looking at him. I don't open the door though, not yet.

He doesn't say anything for a moment; when I look up, he nods shortly. "You should put some ice on your … ."

"Coccyx," I remind him with dignity. "Don't tell me you've forgotten Anatomy already."

"It's been a while."

"But some things you don't forget." I find myself reaching behind me to rub the sore spot where I fell. It'll bruise. My body is a map of marks of my time in Seattle. Trace them and they'll retell my story.

(Not that I would want to hear it again.)

I realize that I'm not actually sure whose elbow knocked me off balance, Mark's or Derek's.

I feel off balance again when I look at him. I can see the lobby lights reflecting in his eyes, through the glass. It's dark in the car, but I see him.

I open my mouth to say good night.

"Do you, um, do you want to come up?"

I kind of want to die after I say it.

But unfortunately … I don't.

* * *

 _ **To be continued - stay tuned! Thank you for reading and I hope you'll review and let me know what you think, because I love hearing it. Next chapter is halfway done, and you know how to speed up this machine ... :)**_


	28. invitations

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews on the last chapter. I appreciate them all and I appreciate your reading. I hope you enjoy this long chapter, which picks up directly where the last one left off ...**

* * *

..  
 _invitations_  
..

* * *

 _Do you want to come up?_

I've used those exact words way back when I first got to Seattle and I was staying at a place a hell of a lot nicer than the trailer. I'd invite him back to my room. I rented a fabulous car even though I don't care about cars – I guess I thought it might make him want to drive with me. It didn't. I'd find my way into his car, though. _Do you want to come up?_ Usually, he said no. Once he came up once and looked around the room. I walked around picking things up and talking too fast and trying not to seem as nervous as I was. He didn't stay. The first time we had sex – after Mark, and Meredith – it was in his trailer instead.

He stayed over in the hotel sometimes, after that.

But he usually left before breakfast.

"Come up," Derek repeats doubtfully, which kind of just makes me feel worse.

Would he believe that my mouth betrayed me? That I was really planning on saying good night to him, opening the door and leaving in a dignified way but apparently my lips had other ideas?

"I mean _in_ ," I say quickly, amending it. Believably, I hope. "Come in. To the restaurant, or – we could eat. Since you here. And I haven't eaten. Have you eaten?"

 _Stop babbling, Addie._

I need a muzzle.

I need a drink.

"No," Derek says after a moment. "I haven't eaten."

So I guess that's that.

He parks the car and we go inside and I pretend walking into this hotel with him isn't absolutely freaking bizarre.

(Weirdly, it doesn't feel that weird. But you know what I mean.)

Once we get inside the hotel … it turns out the restaurant I prefer is apparently closed for a private event tonight. The maître d' looks so devastated to break the news that I'm surprised he doesn't offer to build a new restaurant for me right then. As it is, he assures me the kitchens are open to deliver anything I need to my room, and suggests we consider the bar.

Yeah, there's a bar, with heavy oak tables, but it's dark in there and we both kind of turn away from it at once.

Now what?

This was a bad idea from the start.

I'm going to tell him that, and send him on his way. I'll go up and have a glass of wine and eat the chocolate that comes on top of my immaculately folded, exorbitantly priced laundry if I get hungry.

"You could come up," I offer. "I mean, to eat. Since you're here anyway. We could order food. The kitchens are still open."

I swear I am going to sew my lips shut after tonight. They won't be able to _say_ things to Derek after that, and come to think of it, sealing up my mouth should solve half the Mark problem too.

Two men, two different issues, one stone.

Derek does that pausing thing again and honestly I'm not sure whether it would be worse if he says _yes_ or _no._

He doesn't end up saying anything, just nodding again and following me upstairs.

Silently thanking god for excellent maid service, which means no stray undergarments in the room – Mark's or mine, even if I forget them – I push open the door to what passes for _home_ these days.

Derek showed up here. After prom, he showed up here.

The other night, when I was drunk, he showed up here again.

And now I'm … showing him up here?

I don't know the term for what I'm doing, which is propping the door a little while he walks into my hotel room and then letting it swing shut on the very strange turn my night has taken.

Meanwhile, Derek's face is unreadable.

Did I mention I need a drink?

Except I said we would eat. Which isn't the worst idea, because my hands are shaking a little.

And my hands kind of smell like beer, which is unpleasant, and then I remember I touched the floor at Joe's – with my hands, with my _skirt_ , and I'm disgusted.

"I'm, uh, do you mind if I change?" I ask him.

He looks at me for a moment.

What I'd really like to do is shower, but it feels a little dangerous when I think about our last morning together, me with wet hair in the robe and that frozen moment of confusion right before he left.

"There's bar floor on my skirt," I add, just to make the moment a little more awkward.

I would say I'm my own worst enemy … but there are so many contenders these days.

..

Changing is complicated. Because everything in my life is complicated.

I end up undressing and redressing in the bathroom, which is somehow both more and less revealing than doing it in front of him. First I waste some time with the drawer open trying to figure out what to wear without seeming like I'm trying to figure out what to wear.

Imagine being worried about what I'm wearing with _Derek_ , who has seen me in just about everything and a few thousand times in nothing at all. I am, though.

I have a moment when I wonder if I wonder if yoga pants are too informal – too _slipping into something a little more comfortable_ and then I think about _formal_ and the red dress I wore to prom and have a nice little moment of black humor with myself.

(I've been my only friend pretty much since the plane landed at Sea-Tac, so I have quite the bed of inside-jokes built up at this point; add it to the list.)

Yoga pants it is. I don't _do_ yoga, to be clear. I just appreciate the functionality of its uniform. See also: sports bras. And, I suppose, the fishing hat I wore for my day of drinking after I found the panties. I took it with me, too, figuring Derek didn't deserve to fish in it anymore.

I wonder what he did about it.

… probably just replaced it.

This time I'm also wearing a shirt that's free from history – I mean, it's from my drawer in New York, but everything's been washed at this point and smells like high-end hotel laundry instead of _my_ laundry.

(My laundry the housekeeper did, but the point is the scent, not the labor.)

Which just leave the task of looking in the mirror and thinking that if life were fair at least the lines next to my mouth would be faded since I haven't been smiling much for a while.

They're not, though.

 _And_ my tailbone is throbbing.

I'm rubbing the sore spot distractedly when I leave the bathroom. Derek is standing pretty much where I left him.

"Pain?" he asks.

 _You have no idea._

I shrug a little. "It's fine."

"Can I … ?" he asks.

Why not? Everything else about tonight is already bizarre. So I make my way to him and he does this barely-there gesture with his chin that makes me turn around enough for him to see.

Even though I know he's going to do it, I jump a little when I feel his hands on me.

It's silly considering his hands were on me, a lot, the night he stayed over. He doesn't say anything about it. He just waits a few seconds and when I don't stop him, he lowers the waistband just the slightest amount. I can't help hissing a little when he runs his fingers over the spot I'm certain is going to bruise.

"It's not broken," he says.

Yeah, bruised-but-not-broken is pretty much my specialty. Because the thing is –

"It's actually less painful when you break it," he muses.

Obviously, I know this.

"It's fine, really."

He lets go and I turn around and I move my lips into what I'm pretty sure is a smile.

"You should ice it," he says.

"I will. Later."

He looks like he's about to object.

"Food," I say quickly, figuring it will distract him. "We were going to eat."

I have a refrigerator – a pretty little silver one – and I see his gaze track over there with something like amusement. Yes, Derek, we all know I don't cook.

I don't actually have anything _in_ the refrigerator other than champagne, which makes him grimace. I'm not actually hungry – but to placate him, I order two burgers from room service.

"Do you have anything to drink other than champagne?" he asks once I've hung up.

I glance at the wine fridge. I don't think that's what he means.

"I had water," I tell him. "I think. I guess it's gone."

He looks like he's trying not to roll his eyes. "Is this hotel too fancy for a soda machine?"

The first time I ever stayed in a motel was with Derek and I thought the loud ice machine outside our room was absolutely fascinating – he didn't tease me about it when he realized I was serious and then we both ended up laughing at the competing loudness of our squeaking mattress and the groaning ice machine. We were so young – and flexible – and he used to joke after that that ice machines would get him going so he had to be careful not to –

"Addison?" he prompts.

"I don't know if there's a … soda machine." I remember where I am. Where we are. "There's a shop in the lobby, but it might be closed."

He could call the concierge and have a bottle of water or, you know, an American bald eagle in about three minutes but I know how he'd react to that suggestion.

So he leaves in search of water and when he comes back with two water bottles tucked under his arm, there's a strange expression on his face. And it's not his _I'm a fabulously successful surgeon who still acts annoyed by decent hotels_ expression.

It's something else.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he says, and he closes the door quickly.

Which means it's obviously _something_ , and as soon as he's in the room I slip past him and open the door again to see whatever it is.

"Addison, don't – "

But I do, and I can see down the hall to Mark's room – I can see the clear outline of him, and Callie, against the door.

"I told him to go inside," Derek says.

I didn't realize he was standing behind me.

He holds the door open for me.

"Does it bother you?" he asks once we're back inside and he's leaning against the closed door.

I consider the question. "It bothered me in New York."

He looks at me. "You caught him with someone else," he says. Those are my words, the ones I said to him.

"Some _ones_ ," I correct him, emphasizing the plural. "The last one was … a nurse I knew." I'm probably giving Derek too much credit that he'd remember Charlene, but some part of me wants to protect her name even though I certainly wasn't too thrilled with her when I saw her legs in the air that night. We poor-decisions-about-Mark-Sloan-makers have to stick together, I guess.

Derek takes a sip of his water. "Mark's never been monogamous," he says simply. "I've known him for … almost 35 years now. I knew his first girlfriend – Patty Cambrie, in the second grade – and I also knew the girl he kissed on the jungle gym later that same day."

"What was her name?" I ask. "The other girl."

"I don't remember," Derek says. "Jenny – Janie? Something like that. She had freckles, though."

Of course she did. Probably red hair too, like all the best cheaters. For some reason, it makes me sad that he can't remember her name.

"You knew who he was," Derek says. His tone is … thoughtful. Not accusatory.

I don't answer.

I'm tired but I don't want to sit down on the bed, so I kind of fumble my way to the armchair on one side of the room – it's padded, for which my posterior is grateful – and Derek pulls over the one from the desk.

There. Totally chaste, totally normal. I pull my feet up under me to take some pressure off my tailbone.

"Did you really think you could change him?" Derek asks the question like he's curious, genuinely.

"Kind of. I know how that sounds," I say before he can respond. "Ridiculous. I know that. But I did think I was different. He said I was different and I know he says it to all the girls, but …"

"…but you thought you were different," Derek prompts.

I nod. I don't know why I'm handing him more ammunition to use against me. It's not like he doesn't already have sixteen years of it. His face is neutral and I guess he's just quietly adding it to his belt. File _actually thought she could change Mark Sloan_ under _M_ for Mark, or _S_ for Sloan. Or S for stupid.

I was so stupid.

"I thought so too," Derek says abruptly.

"Hm?" I'm lost. Derek thought I could change Mark?

"I thought I was different from all the other _sad-sack middle aged attendings at hospitals across the country_ ," he admits. He's using my words from earlier, the ones I threw at him for sleeping with an intern and acting like it was a great love story.

I consider this. "Do you still think that?"

"I don't know," he says quietly.

"You had feelings for her, though."

"I did."

"Do you still?" I ask again.

"I don't know," he says again.

I want to ask if he feels anything for me. If he remembers that he used to feel everything for me.

The buzzer sounds instead, announcing the arrival of our burgers.

..

Revelation of the night – unrelated to my failed marriage – is that it's not so bad, drinking water. I should probably do it more often.

I uncork a bottle of wine too, of course, but a glass of wine is pretty much a glass of water when it comes to my bloodstream, and when I pour one for Derek too out of habit he doesn't object.

We're sitting across from each other at the little rolling table the busboy brought, staring at the burgers – his medium, mine medium-rare. He has a pile of feathery spring greens next to his burger instead of fries, a substitution he hissed at me while I was ordering like I wasn't married to the man for eleven years.

The burger's not half bad. Maybe I was hungry after all.

Then I remember the double breakfast that arrived the morning after Derek left my hotel room. After he stayed over.

I wait until we've gone back and forth about the triplets a few times, making the kind of work conversation that's always flowed easily between us, before I bring it up.

"You ordered me breakfast."

He blinks, the burger halfway to his mouth, and sets it down again. I don't say, _the night you stayed over._ I know he knows.

"You always eat breakfast when you're hungover," he says after a minute.

"It was a lot."

"You can eat a lot," he points out, and I make a face at him.

"Thank you, for that."

"I'm not saying you _do_ eat a lot, just that you can. Although you're not doing such an impressive job on the burger."

"It's the size of a newborn," I tell him. "And I'm doing okay."

He's looking at me in a way I'm not sure I want to analyze. "Yeah," he says quietly. "You're doing okay."

So I push it.

"Derek?"

He takes a bite of salad and waits until he's finished chewing to answer me – that was me, _you're welcome, Mom_ , and everyone who's sat next to him at a fundraiser since 1995.

Then he nods and I go ahead: "Tonight, at Joe's – you really weren't on a date?"

It's none of my business.

But I want to know anyway, okay?

"I really wasn't on a date." He pauses. "I know you were married for eleven years – "

 _You_ , he says, not _we._

" – but you must remember dating a little bit."

"Barely." I take a sip of wine. "Although … I think we were good at dating."

"I know we were good at dating." He gives me a trademark smug smile. "We were _very_ good at dating."

We take a minute to be arrogant together, like the old days.

"I guess we weren't so good at marriage," I concede.

"We?" He raises his eyebrows.

"Yes … _we_." I say it firmly.

He doesn't say anything.

"I know I screwed up, Derek. A lot. It's my fault. Most of it is my fault. But I'm not the only one who screwed up." I don't raise my voice; if anything, I'm speaking quietly.

I don't want to fight. I don't think I do, anyway. But I don't want to shoulder the end of our marriage by myself, either. Not when he's sitting in my hotel room eating a burger I ordered for him and he hasn't answered any of my questions, not really:

 _Why did you give me back the rings?_

 _Why did you leave like that the next morning?_

 _Why did you drive me back here tonight?_

 _Why did you come upstairs?_

The thing is, I know his non-answers: he gave back the rings because they're mine, he left like that in the morning because he had to go to work, he drove me back here tonight because he was partially responsible for my falling on my ass at Joe's and I had no car since Mark drove me to work and Mark was planning to use that same car as a screwmobile for him and Callie.

Oh, and he came upstairs for burgers. I think that about covers it.

"I know you're not the only one who … made mistakes," he says after another bite, another silence. "I'm fairly certain I've already acknowledged that."

He's getting all formal-irritated now. He's going to whip out _heretofore_ any minute.

The thing is, he did acknowledge it. Back when he was still pretending to try: _I was indifferent. I was absent. I'm partly to blame_. And then he screwed Meredith and left me standing alone like an idiot on the dance floor with a freaking _French braid_ because I wore it that way to some gala in the nineties and he said he loved it. More than said – _God_ , that was a good night, he couldn't stop looking at me on the dance floor and we ended with that braid in his hand while he –

Yeah. A good night. My scalp tingles a little with the memory.

Honestly? I think a little part of me was fantasizing that we could recreate it after the prom.

(I know. I'm not an innocent victim. Prom night, with the red dress and the French braid and _we're trying, we're trying_ , I still hadn't told Derek the truth about Mark. Any of it. There's plenty of _partly to blame_ to go around, with us.)

I swirl what's left of the wine in my glass. "If you marry Meredith … you'll have to do a better job."

"If I marry Meredith," he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "You want me to marry Meredith?"

"Not particularly, no."

I trail a French fry around my plate a few times without looking at him; he takes it out of my hand and eats it. This is what happens when you insist on the side salad instead of fries. You move in on your wife's plate because her side is better chosen. Derek's health kick only works so well because he has me there to cheat once in a while.

… but I probably should choose a different word to describe his occasional indulgences in fried things, considering our shared history.

"How are you going to marry her if you aren't even dating her?" I say it casually, like I'm kidding instead of testing.

"She doesn't want to date me."

I wait for him to blame me, but he doesn't. Not out loud, anyway.

"I ran into her," he says after he's eaten another of my fries and then returned to his salad. "Tonight, on the way out of the hospital, I ran into her. I was leaving to get a drink, they were leaving to get a drink. We walked together."

"She made you smile," I say, before I can censor myself. I hope he can't hear in my voice how it felt to say it. Or to see it.

"Did she?" He tilts his head. He looks like he doesn't remember.

I wonder if he remembers the last time I made him smile.

It feels like a very long time ago.

He's looking at me and his eyes are soft and they're going to kill me, one of these days. If he weren't such a terrific surgeon Derek would make a pretty effective serial killer.

(It's part of why I can't blame Meredith for sleeping with Derek at the prom. Or any of it, really. I'm ten years older than she is and those eyes have made me do some pretty stupid things. I'm just hoping tonight won't become another example.)

"Derek – "

"I didn't," he says, interrupting me.

"You didn't what?" I drink some more water; it's warm in here – I don't feel like getting up and fussing with the custom digital thermostat thing – or maybe it's the meaty, charred smell of the burgers. Really gets into your nostrils. Which is an issue if you eat most of your meals in your room. If all you have is a _room._

"I didn't mean it," he says, and I find myself actually sitting up a little straighter.

If I were a cartoon my ears would whip forward right now: _go ahead, I'm listening, I gotta hear this._ That kind of thing.

And I wait for him to speak.

He clears his throat a little first. "What I said before, about – " He stops. "We used to be friends. Before we dated, before we got married. We were friends first."

Screw cartoon ears, now I have to look down at my plate for a second so my face doesn't give away the effect his words are having on me. Because even though I knew this already ... it means something, hearing him admit it.

Those are basically _my_ words he's speaking. That awful day in the supply closet. And then he scoffed at me with that – dismissive look.

 _Were we? Or was I just trying to screw you?_

I can see what his face looked like when he said it. It's the same one across the rolling table from me now, in my hotel room, except for the eyes.

They're so different.

Of course I know we were friends first. And I know that he only said we weren't, that day, to hurt me. And like most things Derek does … he succeeded.

I don't know what to say so I just stare at the crisp edges of the fries that are starting to melt into each other and the semicircle indentation of my last bite of meat. Why is he telling me this?

"Why are you telling me this?"

(Oh hey, look at that. I guess I knew what to say after all.)

"Because it's true," he says simply.

"A lot of things are true."

"And you asked me," he continues. "You asked me if I meant it."

I did. I guess I did. Of all the unanswered questions between us, that's the one he's deciding to address?

Now I'm annoyed again.

"Then I suppose I should thank you for answering me." I give him my nicest deb smile. "It's so gratifying to hear you admit that I wasn't just a … receptacle for your baser medical school needs."

"Addison." He shakes his head.

"No, I mean it. It's touching. You should have included it in the wedding vows," I tell him.

"Why, would that have helped you keep them?"

We both stop talking for a minute and take a breath. I wasn't really expecting him to fight back, much less with a cheap shot – which should tell you I've gotten a little too comfortable. Burgers and wine and _talking_ and I can almost forget.

"Derek … why are you here?"

He looks surprised. I remember two things at once: it's pretty hard to surprise Derek, and Derek doesn't like being surprised.

(Case in point: his reaction when I told him about the abortion.)

"You invited me," he says.

"But I didn't invite you the last time."

"Were you asking about the last time?"

I press the bridge of my nose, willing back the headache, burger grease be damned. I'll use extra toner later, whatever, because this conversation is going in freaking _Alice in Wonderland_ circles – even for us. And not to mix fictional metaphors but it's really about fifty percent _Alice_ – or the Red Queen anyway – and fifty percent _Groundhog Day_ with Derek in my hotel room and me asking him fruitlessly why he's there.

"Derek – "

"We were friends, Addison. We can be friends. That's all I was saying, before."

"Wait." I put the silver dome back over my burger. I can't take the overpowering meat smell anymore. I'd call the busboy to come get it but I can just imagine how well Derek would handle it. He'd probably want to wheel the cart back down to the kitchens himself, after one of his boy scout stories about the summers he spent waiting tables.

(Do I sound uncharitable? It's just Derek doesn't _object_ to room service. He objects to someone associating him with it. … and someone pointing out the difference, too.)

"Friends?" I study his face for a moment. I mean, this is pretty much what I decided – without him, mind you – when I realized we'd be working together on Eleanor's case. Why am I not surprised Derek's making it sound like it's his idea?

"Friends." He looks at me for a moment and then covers his own plate. "If you want."

"That's a step up from civil and mature," I remind him. "And we didn't do civil and mature particularly well."

"No," he admits. "But we've done _friends_ before. Civil and mature was new."

There's a little bit of a twinkle in his eyes but he also sounds so serious that I have to hide my own smile.

I look down at our two covered plates. "Friends … eat burgers," I suggest.

He nods. "What do civil and mature people eat?" he asks.

"Salad," I tell him without a pause.

He looks amused now. "But hold the peppers," he says.

"Always hold the peppers."

 _You remember_ , I want to shout. _You remember something about me._

I don't. I don't say anything. I just think.

Here's the thing: _friends_ scares me a little.

Fine, maybe more than a little.

But I don't know how to tell him that even though I definitely don't want him to hate me, I'd still rather he hate me than _nothing_ me, because the idea of never seeing him again – of his just blanking me, forgetting me, walking past me like I never existed – I don't think I can handle it. Maybe I don't really know what's going on, still, but I do know that right now I need to be _something_ with him. If friends is the something … it's a lot better than nothing.

"Are you finished?" Derek asks. He's glancing down at our covered dishes on the table between us.

"Yes, I'm finished."

I prop my chin in my hand (yes, with my elbow on the rolling table – take that, Bizzy) and watch as he stands and goes over to the phone and calls down for them to pick up the table.

I'm about to thank him when he seems to remember his role and starts trying to push the table toward the door – to lessen the busboy's load, I suppose. I'm busy wondering whether my eyeroll is as obvious as it feels when the table jerks to a stop and then he's scrubbing at a spreading wine stain on his jeans.

I apologize like a good hostess even though it's his own fault, and I'm about to say something about sending his jeans down to the laundry when I remember I'm not his wife anymore. His clothes are his business now. And then he's looking at his sleeve with annoyance; trying to manage the stain just ended up with red wine there too.

(Which wouldn't have happened if I'd handled the spill, but – you know, divorce.)

He contains the rest of the spill and then gestures toward the bathroom; I wave my permission for him to go try to salvage his clothes.

Truthfully, I don't think it would be the worst outcome if the shirt ended up in the trash; it's not one I bought. It's plaid and it's – let's just say the wine isn't doing much damage to the color scheme. But like I said, that's not my concern, not anymore.

Of course he can use my bathroom. We're civil. Mature. Friends?

The door buzzes a few minutes after Derek shuts himself into the bathroom to attack the wine stains – the busboy coming for the table. But when I pull open the door, it's not the busboy.

It's Callie.

I blink in surprise.

(I know, I know, I really need to start asking who it is before I open the door. But in fairness, I thought I knew … this time, and the others.)

Callie's long hair is damp and she smells like shampoo; she's wearing what looks like a pair of Mark's sweats and one of his t-shirts. They're not her size but they're not doing the cute-oversized thing either, and I feel her pain – it's me in Derek's clothes all over again.

And she looks rueful.

"I'm sorry," she says, and I don't know if she means _for screwing Mark_ or _for showing up without any warning_. "I was just hoping you had some eye makeup remover I could use …? Mark doesn't have any."

Honestly, so many women move in and out of that room I'm surprised he doesn't have a complimentary toiletry basket at this point, but I nod like I agree.

Callie looks relieved. "I'm going to be a raccoon tomorrow," she says, gesturing at her face. It's a little smudged. And she's pretty damned good with the smoky eye – I remind myself to ask her about it next time things are normal.

(Normal, as in, neither of is freshly fucked and neither of us has an erstwhile ex-husband in our hotel bathroom.)

Speaking of which … I should probably get her out of here before she sees Derek. Not that anything – it's just that it would look strange, that's all.

"I, um, I need a minute to – dig it up," I say, which sounds like the lie it is. I could tell you right now the exact latitude _and_ longitude of all my favorite products. I could draw you a map so specific even Christopher Columbus wouldn't end up on the wrong continent. The point is – she needs to leave.

"Okay. Sure," Callie says, looking a little confused. Then her face brightens. "Ooh, I like your room. It has a better layout than his."

Wait. That's not how this is supposed to go.

"Callie? I can just bring it to you when I … ." My voice trails off as she strolls into the room and now I'm following her like an anxious hostess.

 _Great._

The thing is, if she doesn't leave soon, it might get awkward.

Awkward is one of my many middle names these days, as you've probably noticed, so naturally I'm still trying to think of an excuse to get her out of here as soon as I can – we're only a couple of yards from the closed bathroom door at this point – when the door opens

(because of course it does)

and Derek emerges.

Callie's head swivels from him to me and then back to him again.

I take in what she's seeing.

Derek is standing in the brightly lit doorway in just boxers and an undershirt. He's holding a washcloth in one hand. He already looks a little confused; when he sees Callie, his expression changes to surprise.

Oh, this looks bad.

This looks very bad.

But the worst of it, the biggest problem – I don't actually notice until he unclenches his other fist.

And then I see the moment Callie sees – her eyes with their smeared mascara get huge – and I wonder if it's too late to call room service for some cyanide.

* * *

 _To be continued. Almost 5,000 words and they're still in the hotel room. Oh, Addek. You're going to kill us all one day. Quickly: the first is that one of the things about early Season 3 Addek that drives me nuts in both good and bad ways is that Derek was constantly changing his attitude - snapping at her, being overly friendly, being semi-civil, being kind of a dick, being weirdly flirtatious at the end of the season (enough so that I wrote an entire one-shot about that moment). If you're only Addison and you only see Addison's perspective, those shifts are confusing as hell. They were confusing enough for the viewer!_ _one._

 _Thank you again for reading! You are great. And you know the drill: your reviews power my fingers, and your reviews help me pick where to direct spare writing time. So I hope you'll let me know what you think._


	29. ice

**A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who expressed interest in and asked about this story during its brief-ish hiatus. I was a little stuck on this chapter, trying hard to make it a reasonable length, but ultimately there was too much I felt needed to be included and too many things I wanted to share with you at this point in the story. I'm still working on all my other WIPs - keep being the most wonderful readers and I won't be able to lag behind, either.**

 **It's been a long time since Chapter 28, so quick recap: Derek spilled wine on himself in Addison's hotel room, went to the bathroom to wash it off, Callie knocked on the door to borrow eye makeup remover and then Derek emerged from said bathroom in his underwear, holding something ... (not like that, don't get all Mark Sloan on me).**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

..  
 _ice  
_..

* * *

Callie's eyes – still wearing eyeliner, which I suppose is my fault since she came over to get eye makeup remover – get very big.

Abruptly, Derek closes his fist.

"Shepherd," Callie says, sounding like half apology and half greeting.

"Torres." He nods, then pauses. "Excuse me," he says politely, and then disappears into the bathroom again.

 _Great._

I hope I haven't just lost the only friend I have in Seattle.

Oh, wait. Derek and I are supposedly …

"Friends," I tell Callie hastily. "We're friends."

"You and I?" she asks, looking a little confused.

"No. Well, yes, but I meant Derek and I. Apparently."

"Oh." Callie looks toward the closed bathroom door, then back to me. "That's … good," she says tentatively. "Friends are good."

"He drove me here."

 _Why are you still talking?_

"Since Mark's car was … ."

… it was Callie and Mark's sex-mobile, but I don't actually say that.

"Gotcha." Callie gives me a quick once-over. "You're okay, right?"

Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be – oh, she's kind of glancing in the general direction of the back of me. I almost forgot that I fell.

"I'm fine," I assure her. "Just a bruise."

Well. A bruise … and whiplash from how tangled up my life is. But I don't mention that part.

"Good." She looks like she's about to say something, then stops and starts again. "Sorry again," she says, and the door closes behind her before I can respond.

And then, before I can react, the bathroom door pops open.

"Is she gone?" Derek asks, sotto voce.

I forgot I was living in an episode of _Three's Company_.

"She's gone, but Mr. Roper could be back any minute."

He raises an eyebrow. "Careful – your age is showing."

"It's your age too," I remind him grumpily. "Did you have to go – hide in the bathroom all – squirrely or whatever?"

"I wasn't all _squirrely or whatever_ ," he says, sounding affronted. "I wasn't dressed. Torres is a resident. It's not appropriate."

"It's not – " I stop talking, taking it in. "Oh. Okay. I'm sorry, just to be clear, it's 'not appropriate' to be in your boxers in front of a resident but it's just fine to get naked with an intern?"

"I forgot you're the arbiter of when it's okay to get naked," Derek says. "Remind me the part about the appropriateness of sleeping with your husband's best friend?"

"I don't need to," I point out sourly, "my husband brings it up enough for both of us."

 _Ex_ -husband.

Fuck.

Any chance he didn't notice that?

He blinks, and I take advantage.

"Callie came over for eye makeup remover," I tell him, "so if you don't mind – " I gesture toward the bathroom and he steps obligingly out of the way.

He's still standing outside the doorway, though, once I've retrieved the little bottle.

"I'm going to bring this to her now. Feel free to keep talking about what a cheater I am, but I won't hear you so don't waste your best material."

It's so un-Derek like to let me get in two shots in a row – I'd actually worry about him, but I know that's futile so I close the door behind me instead and exhale once I'm in the hallway.

And now I'm back at Mark's room, where Callie is, and it's like we're playing some weird game of sex hot potato. Or … musical sex chairs. Is there a way to make it so when the music stops, neither of us is in Mark's bed?

(Yeah, based on tonight, I guess not.)

There's something about bringing toiletries to what's basically Mark's bed – he pays for a whole room, but we all know he only uses the bed … and the shower, but whatever – that makes me feel like I'm somehow … pimping Callie out.

Like in addition to being Satan, I'm also the Seattle Madam. That should win me some more friends.

I hear the doorknob turn on the fourth knock, it opens a foot or so and – because of course the universe hasn't finished playing Make Addison Feel as Awkward as Possible – Mark sticks his head out. I can only see the top half of him, but it's safe to assume he's naked.

( _Safe_ in the sense of accurate, not _safe_ in the sense of bad-decision-proof, to be clear.)

"Look who's here!" He grins at me. "Torres got you to change your mind, huh?"

He looks like he's not _quite_ sure whether that would be a good thing – because Mark, and threesome, and all of that – or a bad thing, because it would mean that someone else was better at getting me into bed than he is.

You can just call it Sloan's Dilemma.

"Not quite." I hold up the little glass container of eye makeup remover.

"You're drinking from smaller bottles these days," Mark says, looking amused.

"Very funny." I tap my foot. I hold out the bottle and he doesn't take it. "Mark. Can you please just give this – "

And then I see two hands shoving past Mark. "Sorry!" Callie's a little breathless, the hair around her face damp like she's been trying to wash up and she looks grateful to see what's in my hand. "Thank you _so_ much. I got back here and I … ."

Her voice trails off. I'm just hoping the end of the sentence is … _forgot I didn't get the eye makeup remover_ and not _needed a quick orgasm to wash away the image of your hotel room._

" … yeah," I say, finishing the sentence for her, not particularly articulately, but it works. We do a fast exchange – the cleanser, not the guy.

She gives me a rueful look and I'm about to say good night when Mark speaks up again.

"Torres, you're not going to invite her in?" he prods from a few feet back. He sounds like all this is very entertaining. "Where are your manners?"

"Ignore him," Callie tells me with a sigh.

She doesn't add: _easier said than done_ , even though her post-coitally tangled hair clearly demonstrates the truth of that statement.

"Okay, well. I should … ." I gesture toward the door. _I should leave you two to screw in peace_. I mean, I should, because it's the best use of her time in that room. I should know.

It's certainly better than thinking about what comes next.

"Thank you, Addison. Really. And I'm sorry I – burst in on you." Callie looks a little embarrassed. "Tell Shepherd I'm sorry too," she adds.

And then there's a second of dead silence where, if my life were a movie, there would be a semi-comical record scratch instead.

(If my life were a movie … well. Let's just say it wouldn't make it to basic cable, and I'm not sure who would watch it. Other than Mark, and I'm not even sure it wouldn't be just for _his_ scenes. Especially the adult ones.)

The point is, there's a second of silence in which I can basically _feel_ Mark's ears pricking up.

Ooh, I don't want to deal with the aftermath.

… which is basically my middle name, I know.

So I assure Callie as fast as I can that it's fine and turn to leave, the door closing on Mark's voice – all I can hear is, "wait, what do you mean, _Shepherd_?"

..

I forgot my key card.

I live in a hotel and I still forgot to grab it when I left the room, because _muscle memory_ apparently doesn't extend to whatever the hell you can call that weird toiletry exchange.

Which means I'm now in the new and awkward position of having to knock on the door of my own hotel room.

I can hear Derek moving toward the door and for a crazy moment I almost put my eye up close to the peephole – like we used to in our first apartment when one of us forgot the key or needed to get inside with a bag of groceries or whatever, so the person inside the room sees just a big, freaky ball of blue. We only did it with each other, and we thought it was hilarious.

(Before you judge, please remember how young we were.)

I stay where I am this time. If he looks through the peephole he'll just see … me. In hotel slippers with no key.

I tap one slippered foot.

(Don't tell my mother I walked down the hallway in hotel-issued slippers, please. Actually, just don't talk to her at all – I tend to regret it when I avoid that advice.)

Finally, he opens the door.

"Took you long enough."

"You're welcome," Derek says, frowning.

I just close the door and lean against it.

He looks at me. "How was your errand of mercy?" he asks.

"How do you think it was?" I make a face.

"Well, you're fully clothed," Derek says mildly, "so it can't have been that exciting."

Yeah, I guess I deserve that.

As potshots go, it's not much harsher than what I was already thinking.

Derek clears his throat. "I hope Torres didn't … get the wrong idea," he says.

Chalk this up in the same column as Derek hoping he didn't _overstep_ the night he slept here. Get the wrong idea? Gosh, why would she get the wrong idea just because my half-naked ex-husband strolled casually out of my hotel bathroom?

(See? I said _ex_ -husband. I'm the poster child for personal growth.)

"I can't imagine why she would," I mutter sarcastically.

(Fine, not _that_ much personal growth.)

Derek manages to look offended. "You said I could get cleaned up," he reminds me.

"I know."

"And I didn't know Torres – Callie – was going to come over for … girl supplies," he adds, still sounding defensive. "I wasn't aware you were running a home for wayward Sloan conquests."

Well, there's already one of those living here, so I might as well open the door for the rest. Or has he forgotten how depressingly empty my Seattle life is?

Probably he has. Whatever's going on with us, whatever _overstepping_ got us here, he's never going to convince me he gets how shattered everything was after that stupid prom. Or the fact that when he smiled smugly at the mediator and gave me all of our joint possessions, all that he was doing was emphasizing that he was actually leaving me with nothing.

Nothing at all.

"It's fine, Derek," I tell him now, coolly. "Obviously, the more preferable thing would be if you'd managed _not_ to pour wine all over yourself, but since that ship already sailed, then yes, I did say you were welcome to use the … sink or whatever." I pause, looking down at his hand.

His fist is closed again.

I could pretend I never saw what was inside it. We could stand here next to the door and keep up this medium-energy jousting – for practice, somewhere between play and real.

Well Until someone gets hurt, that is.

"Derek … I said you were welcome to wash up," I clarify, "not to pickpocket."

He looks almost amused at the term _pickpocket_. He looks down at his fist, the one wrapped around my stupid, jack-in-the-box rings that keep popping up where they shouldn't be.

"I thought you wanted me to take them," he says.

"Then why did you leave them?"

Pause, rinse, repeat. The conversation is as circular as the two rings he's holding.

So we're back to the other kind of hot potato. The really-nice-rings kind of hot potato, which I guess is better than the Seattle Madam kind of hot potato.

"They're yours," he says simply, like he said in the hallway after he consulted on the Rivers triplets.

"Not really, Derek." I'm starting to get a headache, not to mention the coccyx-ache from earlier. "See, you gave them to me in a certain … context." Not that he remembers. "And that context is gone. So _maybe_ … they're actually yours."

"You left them on the counter," he says.

Okay, I know I was _just_ complaining that this conversation is circular, but I can't help responding: " _You_ left them on the counter."

"Fine. After I left them on the counter, you left them on the counter."

I open my mouth to retort and then suddenly realize how ridiculous this is.

Ridiculous … and sad.

I feel a little hollow, in the pit of my stomach, because it's sad.

This is sad.

And I don't say anything.

Derek doesn't say anything, either. He opens his fist, though, and we just look together at the rings in his palm.

I realize that I still don't know where his ring is.

I don't want to ask.

The thing is, I didn't see it when we lived together in Seattle – if you can call what we did _living together_. I haven't seen it since the night he left me and I don't want to think too closely about that at all. I asked him about it once in Seattle and he did the whole thing where he would change the subject and act like he could barely hear me and couldn't be bothered with me either. He did that a lot. I don't think I asked again.

I haven't had the time or the inclination or, hell, the sheer amount of _alcohol_ necessary, but I think I always knew, deep down, how little he was giving to our quasi-reconciliation. At the same time, though, a part of me still wanted to see that ring one last time – and not on the hand I saw the night he left me.

I remember it. His ring, I mean. If I close my eyes I can still see a shadow of that ring – his hand pressed against the glass of the door. Just a shadow, because the glass is smoked. And I was outside. And rain, and other things, were blurring my vision.

The rings are just sitting in his palm. I remember when he proposed, the ring was in his hand. A closed fist that he opened: like that. Not in a velvet box. That's Derek for you: tactile.

I'm so tired. I don't want to think about any of this.

"I don't know what to do with them," I tell him. It's actually – true. "I didn't mean to put them on that morning, and now I don't know what to do with them."

"Okay," he says quietly.

"Okay in what way?"

"Okay as in okay," Derek says.

For a moment neither of us speaks.

"But I think you'll feel better if you do _something_ with them," he announces. It's in that sort of annoyingly hearty tone he used to use to try to get me to do things like go hiking upstate or buy twiggy high-fiber cereals that taste like dust.

"Oh, is that what I need to do to feel better?"

He kind of puts his hand out again like he's going to give the rings to me and I take a step back. We could choreograph a line dance at this point.

"Addison …"

I notice he looks tired too. Join the club.

"You're the one holding them," I point out. " _You_ figure out what to do with them."

"That's how this works?" he asks.

"I don't know how this works." Any remaining interest I had in pushing him on this deflates out of me like an old balloon. It's just too sad. "I don't know how any of this works."

"Yeah." Derek glances down at the rings. "Well, neither do I."

Then for a minute we're both just breathing, like those pauses we used to take when we were really getting into it – _fighting_ , excuse me, not the other kind of getting into it. You couldn't have paid us to take breaks for the other kind, not when we were really … but that doesn't matter now.

"Just – fine, Derek. Give them to me or whatever." I don't want to look at him right now, I definitely don't want to see his eyes when he puts my rings in the palm of my hand. They're warm from _his_ hand so the metal actually feels … alive. There's no way to avoid the aching sense memory of the day he slipped each of them onto my finger for the first time.

Right before our wedding ceremony, I switched my engagement ring from my left to my right hand, just as Emily Post and Bizzy Forbes Montgomery require, leaving my left hand bare for Derek to slip the wedding band onto its fourth finger. And then after the ceremony, the engagement ring went back to my left hand, on top of the wedding band. I remember him taking that hand in his while we stood on the receiving line, calling me _Dr. Shepherd_ , kissing my fingers where the rings were sparkling.

Same rings I'm holding now.

It was totally different, of course.

Totally different, but still us. So in a way, still the same.

Maybe that's what makes this so hard. It's still Derek. And I still have no idea how to navigate a world where we don't, on some level, belong to each other.

I haven't lived in that world since I was twenty-two years old.

And yeah, that includes the time in New York when I was living with Mark. Just ask him.

(My advice: be sober when you do it – he's hard to resist otherwise. Just saying.)

As soon as my fist closes around the rings I turn to the dresser – the one responsible for the bruise on my side from my drunken stumbling the night I'd rather not think about – yank open a drawer and just – toss them in.

When I turn around, Derek looks taken aback.

I can't blame him. He lived with me as long as I lived with him and he's aware I'm not the kind of person who just … tosses things into drawers.

But maybe I am. Maybe that was another Addison. _His_ Addison.

We don't belong to each other anymore, right?

"There," I say. "I did something with them."

It may have been Addison Montgomery who got the engagement ring the first time, but it was Addison Shepherd who got it the second time, put it on top of her wedding ring.

She's the one we signed away in the lawyers' office, sealed and delivered.

And yet half the hospital still calls me Dr. Shepherd – more, really. I can't blame them. Not really. I can't expect them to shake the habit of me as quickly as my husband did, can I?

( _Ex_ -husband. Right. I know this one, even though he's currently in my hotel room. Even though he just, in twisted Shepherd-post-divorce-fashion, actually _handed_ me my rings, except it's not _will you marry me_ so much as _can't you figure out this divorce thing already?_ )

I need to concentrate to make my next breath a deep one; it feels like too much.

Maybe Derek senses this, because he changes the subject.

"I don't think Torres likes me very much," he says.

 _Okay, then._

Of course that's noteworthy when you're Derek Shepherd. If I kept a tally of everyone in Seattle who didn't like me, I wouldn't have time to practice medicine.

I just shrug a little. What am I going to say?

Derek tilts his head. "Then again, she's sleeping with Mark – so I guess her opinion of me doesn't hold much weight."

"I slept with Mark. Does my opinion of you hold weight?" I ask it daringly. Like a challenge. But like so many of my challenges to Derek, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"You didn't sleep with him tonight," he points out.

True.

I make a face, I think, maybe recalling that even if it wasn't _that_ close, it was a little closer than I would have preferred, back at the bar.

I get the sense, from Derek's expression, that he's recalling the same thing. My cheeks flush a little, remembering the way the three of us were … entangled, when Derek came up to on that sticky little patch of non-dance-floor.

"Derek. You know I didn't actually – "

"I know that," he says quickly.

"Okay. Good."

"You were doing the thing," he says. "The … girl thing," he adds as if that's why I'm curious.

"You know about the girl thing?"

"Of course I know about the girl thing. You used to do it in – "

" – medical school," I finish for him.

Something flickers in his eyes.

"It's not like I think – "

"I know. He wouldn't – "

"But still."

"Right."

Yeah, that was a whole conversation. A handful of words and very little punctuation to say, _hey, Mark may not be the king of informed consent outside the OR, but I'm not saying we have to call the cops either._

Derek looks almost amused for a second.

I don't want to know that. I don't want to be able to read these minute movements, I don't want to recognize the light in his eyes. It doesn't help. It _hurts._

Like admitting that even after the prom, and the papers, and the supply closet, a piece of me is still standing alone on that dance floor in a stupid half-French-braid waiting for Derek to come back.

I wish his face didn't still feel so familiar. That I could just skate over it. Like a stranger would. Like he did, before all this started.

And I'm back on that divorce thing. I've never seen a divorce, not really. Kind of like how I'd never seen a marriage before Derek and we had to figure that out together too.

I don't want to think about that. So I gesture toward the bathroom.

"Did you, uh, did you get the stains out?" I ask.

(Of his clothes, to be clear. I'm already well aware of the permanent marks we've left on each other.)

He nods. "I think so. I used the – " and he sort of moves his hand vaguely in a way I recognize well to mean _stuff of yours I wouldn't know how to describe._

"You did?"

"Yes." He frowns a little. "I didn't think you'd mind."

"I don't."

Really, I don't, and the bottle's on the marble shelf next to the pretty linen laundry bag where I always leave it, in hotels, and where it was in our bathroom at home too. I don't even know what's in it, it's some – magical concoction Savvy bought for me years ago when she was traveling all over the place for work and had to keep her junior associate suits looking perfect. The label has Chinese characters on it and it smells faintly of lavender and a little acidic and it's insanely good at pre-treating stains.

I used to keep bottles everywhere – in my locker at the hospital, in the bathroom off our bedroom, in the beach house, in my makeup bag, in the spare travel bag of toiletries. I didn't even realize it came with me to Seattle until I unpacked.

Both times.

I don't need to use it that often. The day I took off _for drinking_ , after Derek slept with Meredith, aside, I don't really spill things on my clothing. I do plenty of damage, to be clear … it's just rarely external.

"They're, uh, they're almost dry."

I nod. "You want another glass of wine?"

"And risk more stains?" He shakes his head. "I'm driving."

Right.

He looks at me.

When in doubt, _Montgomery_ it out, so I give him my country-club smile and invite him to sit down until his clothing dries like that's a normal thing to say.

He sits down on the armchair and I sit on the edge of the bed.

All of a sudden, waiting for clothes to dry seems like a bad idea.

I'm – confused, I'm still tired. There's always been one safe area between us: medicine.

I open my mouth to direct the conversation that way, and I'm surprised at what comes out instead.

(Why should I be surprised, though? When all I've done tonight is put my foot in my mouth – taking breaks to put some alcohol in there, and a burger too, of course.)

"Alta." That's what I say, without context, so I'm also not surprised when Derek looks confused.

Even Turn-of-the-Millennium Attentive Derek had his limits; I'm not about to hold it against him. "The restaurant."

He tilts his head. "The one in Wallingford?"

"No. That's the one with the Brazilian sushi chef. Alta is the one with the – "

"Tapas," he says.

"And wine." Powerful Spanish reds, which was a major part of the appeal.

"Wine goes without saying." He pauses. "Alta," he repeats, turning the word over like he's testing it. "Okay. What about it?"

 _Don't say it, Addie. There's still time for some dignity._

"We were going to go," I tell him.

(Please remind me to kill myself after Derek leaves tonight, okay? Or at least tape my mouth shut before I see him again?)

"We." He pauses. " _You and I_ we?"

Oh, so he does remember that he and I used to be a _we._ Good to know.

I nod. "You said we could go. I made a reservation."

"When – "

He stops talking, apparently anticipating my response.

"For the weekend after the prom," I tell him.

"Oh." He looks down for a moment.

"I made a reservation. And I told you about it. We were in the trailer and you were making coffee. You said you wanted to go – "

 _Shut up, Addison, for the love of god just stop talking._

I hate that I remember that moment.

I hate that I can see what he was wearing – a flannel shirt and a fishing vest and if _that_ didn't glue my knees together you'll have some idea that the man has serious skills – and I can smell the coffee the way he makes it. Strong, the way I like it, but also a little bitter.

I hate that so many moments are emblazoned in my memory when it seems like he only has to remember what's convenient – or what he's forced to acknowledge.

"Addison."

"I mean, obviously we missed the reservation." I'm talking again, off to the races, before he can say anything else. _God._ "You know, things just kept – happening, even after … that. Plans and … things."

 _Nice, Addie, very articulate._

He seems to get it somehow, based on the way he's sort of hanging his head, looking down at his hands.

I'm expecting him to come back with a dig, a _what about the plans we had for the weekend after you screwed my best friend?_

(We didn't have any, by the way. We'd stopped making weekend plans by then and we'd also stopped commenting on it or maybe even noticing it, which is probably worse.)

He doesn't say anything at all and I'm still talking in spite of myself.

"Like – Kathleen's birthday is next week," I offer an example.

He looks up. "It is?"

I shake my head. "Of course it is. You forgot it, didn't you."

He doesn't respond.

"And Tessie's is the week after that, and then – "

"All right, all right," he interrupts, and then frowns. "You're doing the thing," he says.

"The girl thing?"

"No." He does _his_ thing then, that half-laugh. "The … wife thing. The one where you nag me."

"I'm your ex-wife."

"And yet – you're still nagging me."

"I'm not nagging."

"Fine, you're … judging me. There are a lot of birthdays to remember in my family, Addison."

"Oh, I'm aware. I'm the one who was in charge of remembering them. Which reminds me … you should really start keeping your own calendar, Derek."

"I have a calendar," he says defensively.

"You need a calendar with _other people's information_ in it too," I spell out as clearly as I can. "That or marry someone else who's willing to take on the hordes."

There's a moment where we both sort of pause and smile and remember the first time someone referred to the whole crazy Shepherd clan as _the hordes_ in front of me – without enunciating with the type of clarity I was used to – and I heard it as _whores_ and Derek and I spent the whole train ride back to the city laughing about it. One of us just had to say " _the h-_ " and we'd start again.

Everyone on the train must have hated us.

We were young and in love and everything was funny and everything revolved around us. We were that besotted couple who annoyed everyone else … if you can believe it.

"I feel old," I tell him.

"Don't say that," he says even though he's the one who told me before that I was showing my age.

"Why not?"

"Because we're the same age," Derek says, "and I don't want to feel old."

"Oh, is that why were you were dating a child?"

"… don't say that either."

"Derek – "

"Come on, Addison, we were getting along so well," he says, in exactly the same plaintive tone he used to use to say those same words when we were married and he wanted me to stop nagging him.

(Yeah, back to _nagging._ That was what he would call it; it was a fair term sometimes but other times, particularly toward the end … _nagging_ was pretty much anything I said other than offering him a drink.)

God, divorce is weird.

We shouldn't be allowed to use the same words we did when we were married. Maybe divorcing couples should be required to learn a whole new language. Maybe _Come on, Addison, we were getting along so well_ would sound different in Portuguese.

Different enough that it wouldn't hurt at all.

Because right now, I hurt. And not because of the bruise I still haven't iced.

"We can go there," he says abruptly, interrupting my train of thought.

"Go where?"

"To that – place." He's looking down at his hands again. "The, uh, the restaurant. Sometime. If you want."

He glances up.

"Alta," I repeat doubtfully. "That place?"

"Yes. That place." I must still look doubtful because he keeps talking. "As friends," he adds with some haste, and I try not to be insulted that he thinks he has to, I hate to use the term, _friend zone_ his wife of eleven years.

But considering I threw myself at him the last time he was in this hotel room, I guess I don't get the high horse.

"As friends," I repeat coolly.

"Friends eat." He repeats my words from earlier now.

" … burgers," I remind him, since he hasn't finished the sentence. "Friends eat burgers."

"Friends can't branch out?" he asks.

Truthfully … he looks about as happy with his own mouth as I've been feeling all evening about mine. I guess we were both counting on a little more censorship.

He seems to be waiting for me to respond.

Great.

I should say no, object because he's asking me out of pity.

Because he just ate a room service burger – okay, a pretty decent room service burger, which is understandable at these prices – in the depressing hotel room where I've been living since a rogue pair of black panties kicked me out of the closest thing to a home I had in Seattle.

In other words, he feels sorry for me.

I'd feel sorry for me too.

The obvious answer: say no.

 _Come on, Addie. Just say no._

"Yeah, okay," says my traitorous mouth. I'm not even surprised at this point.

Derek doesn't seem surprised either. He nods shortly, his patented _okay so we're done here_ signal, and stands up.

I guess his clothes are dry.

..

When he emerges from the bathroom he's fully dressed again.

The stains are gone. That stuff really is incredible.

Half of me is a little disappointed, though. One more time Derek is leaving without scars. I'm standing there with tonight's bruise really starting to throb.

I'm playing with my bracelet to keep my hands busy, to keep from fussing with his shirt – he got the stain out but dabbed too aggressively, and there's a crease starting. But that's not my job anymore.

I just stand there, between Derek and the door, making meaningless conversation about the Rivers triplets.

Okay, fine. I'm dawdling because I don't really want him to leave.

"You, uh, you don't have to go."

It sounds so obvious that I'm embarrassed. He looks at me for a moment.

"Do you … need something?" he asks.

His tone is neutral, maybe even friendly.

But _need_ , he says.

Need, not want. Which seems to suggest he'll willing to be here if I need him – let's say, to keep me from downing another bottle of gin – and god, I'm not saying that's nothing, or that I'm anything but grateful – but not if I _want_ him.

That's my take, anyway.

"No, of course not. I just meant if you're too tired or whatever." I smile at him as if my excuse made any sense at all. "Just, you know, drive carefully."

"I always drive carefully."

He does. I can't deny it. Assuming we're not counting his brief foray into motorcycles.

We kind of switch places then, in a semicircle around each other, and then he pauses at the door … I guess to say goodnight. God, it's weird saying _goodnight_ to someone you lived with for as long as we lived together. Not the kind of goodnights we used to say, the we-still-share-a-bed kind, but this kind.

Where we're both at the door, but only one of us will be left behind when it closes.

Meanwhile, I'm sort of playing with the molding around the door frame, running a finger around the whorls. Sometimes I just … I need something to do with my hands when Derek's around. Keep them busy.

We both say it: _good night._

He steps over the threshold but then seems to remember something, turning around.

"Thank you for dinner," he says.

Oh yeah, I charged it to the room.

"You're welcome." I pause. "Is that why you came up? For a free burger?"

I'm teasing. At least I think I am.

"No," he says. "That's not why I came up."

He just looks at me and I want to grab his shirt and pull him back over the threshold. I want to take back everything I did to hurt him. I want him to stay.

But I need him to _want_ to stay. And that ferry sailed a while back; I have the signed papers to prove it.

"Okay, good," that's all I say, my voice high and unfamiliar in my ears. At least it doesn't shake. Unconsciously, my hand finds its way to the sore spot where I fell – as if that's where the pain is coming from right now – and then his eyes flicker down to follow it.

"Don't forget to ice that," he says.

There's the briefest of moments, a flash, where I think he's remembering. _The ice._

Sixteen years of this. If we were together it would be … nice. This thing. The fact that basically every word links back to something in our shared past. Like our own private language. Like a square on a quilt.

Divorce, though. Now any word can be a minefield and I'm always stepping wrong.

"I won't forget," I say and I'm starting to close the door when I hear his voice.

"Ginny," he says abruptly. "Ginny Halloran."

Now it's my turn to be confused. I pull the door the rest of the way open.

"What?"

"That was her name – the girl Mark kissed on the jungle gym in the second grade," Derek explains, and then I remember his telling me Mark's 'My First Cheating' story from their shared childhood earlier tonight, except he couldn't recall the name of the pint-sized Other Woman. "Ginny Halloran," he repeats now, turning her name over like a memory. "Her family owned the candy store in town and she'd give you free lollipops if she liked you. Red ones." He pauses.

"I guess Mark was being strategic that day," he says.

 _Strategic._ I consider this.

Free red lollipops are a pretty good reason to cheat, I guess, but what did Mark get from me, then? What was his strategy there?

Derek looks at me for a moment. "The … other night," he begins quietly, "the other time I was here," and he stops.

This is how you start stories when you're married: a turn of phrase, a prompt, and then the other one picks it up and keeps going, or encourages the rest of the story.

I make myself wait a second before I respond, like I'm trying to summon the memory. Like the night he slept here isn't painfully forefront in my mind.

"I remember," I say, and nod, waiting for him to go on.

"You were drunk," he says. "Very drunk."

"Yeah … I remember that too."

We exchange a rueful glance and I can pretend for a moment he's referring to any number of episodes during our relationship, from letting off a little too much steam post-exams to letting loose on rare days off. Like we both don't know that the night in this hotel room was different.

He kind of eases his body back a little bit and his gaze flickers just the smallest amount but I can't help reading him like a blinking neon sign and I know he's looking toward Mark's hotel room.

And I know he's thinking about Joe's.

When he looks back at me he seems … troubled, and I have to fight sixteen years of urges to take the step that divides us and put my hand on his cheek. _What's wrong?_

How long does it take until that instinct to _make it better_ goes away? I want to get in a dig here, I really do, that Derek seems to have overcome his pretty fast, the way he shredded me to bits in that supply closet the day I walked out of Hannah Fowler's room. But then Derek also showed up here, the night I polished off more Bombay Sapphire than anyone really should. So maybe he's not above his instincts, either.

He's looking down at his hands now.

"Derek?" I just say his name when he still doesn't talk.

Finally, he raises his eyes to look at me. "Is that how it was?" he asks.

I shake my head, trying to understand. There's marital shorthand and then there's just variations of the verb _to be_ with no detail, so I'm not following.

He clears his throat a little. "Is that how drunk you were," he asks, "in New York?"

 _Oh_. I get it now.

He wants to rewrite history, or at least revise it to make it less incriminating – god, I know what that's like. I see how he wants to see it: If I was drunk and Mark took control, better yet if I was incoherent and Mark took advantage … that's easier to stomach than just …

Being sober, and throwing my life away.

(I mean, I'm not saying I was _sober_. That last year in New York I don't think there was a single night that went by without sufficient wine to make sure I stayed numb.)

But I wasn't drunk. Not that kind of drunk. Not excuses-your-behavior drunk.

Not the kind he's asking about.

I don't know if he's been wondering this since the night he slept here or if something about tonight at Joe's made him think of it. Seeing Mark in action with Callie, showing up after I tried to check on Callie and ended up half sucked back in again.

He's still looking at me, and my chest constricts because he's actually – he's offering me a Get Out of Jail Free card.

Okay, not _free_ , because my marriage is still over and I'm still stuck in a hotel room three thousand miles from civilization, but – parole, at least. Work release. Something that would ease his disgust for what I did with Mark that night.

God, you have _no_ idea how much I want to say yes.

To tell him that's exactly what went down in New York, the night he caught me with Mark. I was off-my-feet drunk, incapable of decent decision-making, and Mark took advantage of my vulnerable state to check another box … so to speak.

Just the idea of it is enough to make my heart pound; I feel almost giddy with a moment of hope because if I tell him that, maybe the scales of this judgmental Derek, the new Derek, will fall away. He'll be concerned like he was the night he stayed over in this hotel room. He'll be gentle. And I don't want to admit to anyone, much less myself, how much I want that.

And all I have to do to get there is tell him _yes_. Just one word: _yes_ , Derek, you can actually forgive me, because that's how drunk I was in New York.

But it's a lie.

And as much as Derek tore me apart for lying to him about my relationship with Mark, as much as he probably thinks I _am_ a liar, that lying's easy for me, when I look at his eyes now it's just not even a possibility.

"No."

It comes out as a whisper; damn it.

"No," I say again, a little louder. "It wasn't like that."

He nods, just barely, not looking at me anymore.

"Derek … I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he says calmly. "I was just wondering," he adds, like what he asked me was whether I thought it would rain tomorrow.

(The answer is yes. It's going to rain tomorrow and pretty much all the freaking time.)

His voice is quiet; he's not yelling or using that awful cold tone that cuts right through me.

So why does it feel like a knife anyway?

"It's late," he says. He nods a little toward me, adding, "don't forget the ice."

I blink and wait for _ice_ to bring up memories for him too, to see a light in his eyes that – even if he hates me now – remembers that we used to be young and in love.

No. It doesn't happen.

His eyes are just regular.

So I thank him, stretching my face into something neutral and polite when all I want to do is grab him and shout loud enough to cut through all the garbage that's still between us – and then the door closes behind him.

..

I must have stared at the door for five straight minutes after it closed behind him.

I'm still standing here now. Because I'm half-expecting it to buzz again.

But it doesn't.

I'm frozen but I remember _ice_ so I walk through water to the phone to call the front desk.

 _Of course, Dr. Montgomery, I'll get that up to you as soon as possible – and can I bring you anything else?_

I wonder what the nice, eager concierge would say if I requested some cyanide. Or a noose. Or a false identity and a ticket somewhere tropical.

(Large hat included, of course. I have enough problems already without ruining my skin too.)

"No, thank you," I tell him politely. "I don't need anything else."

Biggest lie ever. But it's not like what I need is something the concierge can get me, anyway. What I need isn't something you can order over the phone.

… well, except a drink. But I can do that myself; I have plenty of bottles here.

I grab one, and a corkscrew. And a glass. So civilized, so _I don't have a problem._ Right?

What was that Mark said? _I know you and Derek are competing for who's the most functional alcoholic._

I've been losing to Derek for longer than I care to remember, that's what I'm thinking about when I pour the first glass.

That and – at least I'm not drinking out of the bottle. I'm drinking out of a lovely crystal wineglass. Faster than a _lady_ should, sure, but who's here to see me?

No one.

It's okay. Okay? Don't think I'm about to finish the bottle and go throw myself at Mark again. Even I'm not going to sink that low. And I'm doing this responsibly … kind of.

As in I'm already calculating my limitations, knowing what time I have to be up for work, and I make myself promise to stop at two.

 _Myself._

Because I'm alone.

On a white bed, surrounded by white walls, in a hotel full of rooms that look exactly like this one. Pan out the shot and I would look so small, a dot of a human in a sea of barely-lit windows. I would disappear.

The door buzzing interrupts my self-pity – my heart flutters for just a second before I remember it's the hotel. They've actually brought one of those pretty, old-fashioned bags imprinted with a pattern of blues and greys, and a copper bucket of replacement ice, all on a little linen-draped wheeling table with a stout china vase of fresh flowers.

Such a civilized setup for an injury that would best be called _falling on my ass on a filthy bar floor_ , but I'll take it.

I move the ice bag from hand to hand for a minute.

As for what happens next – do me a favor and just ... look away, okay? It's for your own good. You might not want to see this.

And I'm not even drunk so I can't use that an excuse.

But fine, here's what I do: I check to make sure the door is bolted and chained and then I open the drawer of my dresser, and sift around a bunch of folded knit things – the drawer is a casual one; my actions are anything but – until my hand closes around my rings.

Don't worry – I don't put them on.

I do sit there on the side of the bed holding the rings in my hand, feeling the shape of them, using my other hand to prop the ice to numb the ache in my lower back.

Sometimes I wish I could numb the rest of me that way too.

That's not healthy. I get that.

I _know_. It's just that some nights it feels like that's the only way to make it through.

Tonight is one of those nights.

* * *

 _Thank you so much for reading! I hope you'll review and let me know what you think. And thank you Shonda, not just for creating my favorite love triangle ever, ever, ever, but for the heartbreaking lines I paraphrased to end this chapter. I have a lot of works in progress right now, but it's Christmas. We love posting fics on Christmas. Hopefully, we love reviewing them too, because I love hearing from you._


	30. illusions

**A/N: Thank you so much for your review on the last chapter!** I didn't realize I'd be updating this story today but sometimes these things just happen. (I don't know even how it happened, it was just there ... ?) And you guys are the best - I can't believe I actually learned, after the last chapter, how to say, _Come on, Addison, we were getting along so well_ in Portuguese **(Addison-fan,** you rock). Still hard at work on my other WIPs too, because that's just how things go when you're Addek trash. I hope you enjoy this first update of 2019.

* * *

..  
 _illusions  
_..

* * *

Two thoughts cross my mind, one right after the other, when my alarm goes off and I have to face the morning:

First: _thank god I'm not still holding the rings_

Second: _god, my standards are low these days_

They're both true.

I do wake up in the aftermath of last night's moping session. Next to me in bed is old-fashioned ice bag the hotel provided, melted and runny by now. There's a crystal wineglass with a runner of deep red sediment and then, sitting on the bedside table next to the overly complicated telephone … are the rings.

 _The_ rings, mind, not _my_ rings. They stopped being _my_ rings when we signed the papers, I guess, since that's what Derek and I have both been calling them, seamlessly. _You're wearing the rings_ , that's what he said the night he actually noticed something.

All this is to say I wake up in the wrinkled ruins of Addison Shepherd instead of the shiny new Addison Montgomery I still haven't actually figured out. It's not that it's surprising … but it's still a little disappointing.

I wake up alone, too – which, yeah. At least I didn't sleep with Mark again.

And if, as I watch my tired-looking reflection brushing her teeth, there's a small shameful part of me that can almost admit to wishing Derek had never left last night … ? I hope you won't judge me too much.

It's fine. It's a momentary lapse and stuff it down with the rest of the things I don't want to think about – including the rings, which go back into my drawer, clunking and rolling messily among the fabric in a way that would have given New York Me a coronary.

But this, I guess, is Seattle Me.

I may not quite know who Addison Montgomery is, even if she's the one on my not-even-that-new-anymore hospital badge. I may not know how to make her okay, how to keep her from too many bad choices and too much good wine.

But I do know one thing, at least.

I know how to dress her.

I know how to make her look like nothing's wrong … on the outside, anyway.

So I stand there in the really decent-sized hotel closet and study the rows of fabric. It's not the most colorful – Derek used to tease me about how much black I owned, black and white and grey, but it never looked out of place in Manhattan.

There's some color – and some great dresses, too, but remember when I said dresses are a bit complicated for adulterous divorcees?

(Because of the divorcee part, not the adultery part, to be clear.)

… a skirt it is, then.

Anyone else might worry about running out of fabulous skirts, but I have a pretty decent collection. What's left of it, anyway, but that's not a topic I'm drunk enough to consider right now.

I settle on a high-waisted grey number with perfectly placed faux pockets on the back that's half impeccable tailoring and all illusion – it hugs my body in a way that you could euphemistically say makes me look _curvy_ and Sloanishly say makes me look … something less printable _._ Because I don't have much to write home about in that particular area but this skirt actually makes it seem like I do.

You can't put a price tag on that kind of illusion.

(I mean, you can, and Derek would feign shock and dismay at what the price tag said, of course, as if he's still an oh-so-grounded resident and not a brain surgeon known to spend a small fortune on impractical luxury fishing gear.)

Once I'm dressed, I turn a few times in front of the mirror. I'm not being vain, really. I'm just making sure the line of it is – fine, I'm being a little vain. I like this skirt, okay? I don't have a lot going for me these days … so just let me have the skirt.

I smooth down the back of it, wincing a bit when my hand runs over last night's bruise.

Ow.

Then I remember that Mark used to tease me about this skirt, he once called it _false advertising_ halfway through shoving me into the wall of his office in Manhattan; he was laughing at me but he was also paying attention to me and that should give you a decent picture of what those two months were like.

It was less funny when I caught him with that blonde nurse who could serve a three-course meal off her perky, perfect … but that's neither here nor there.

The point is, I like the illusion. Even though Derek never had an issue in that area. My husband, as you've probably guessed from his sixteen years with me and his apparently _far_ more meaningful two months with a pocket-sized intern … is not what you'd call an ass guy. Lucky for him.

( _Ex-_ husband. You know what I mean.)

Then I remember something else, a more uncomfortable memory of the last time I remember wearing this skirt. It was the night Derek told me he wasn't signing the divorce papers.

It was also the night of that train accident that was gory even for your bog standard urban trauma center; Derek was morose and preoccupied after and I wish I could say it was because of the patient he lost … okay, that sounds bad. My point is, Derek has always taken it hard when he loses a patient, but that night – looking back, I know what he was really upset about was losing his girlfriend. Losing that new life he built without me.

Even though it was his choice! That's Derek, he never stopped blaming me for _his_ choice to sign the papers. Not really. He didn't stop punishing me either, which I guess is how even though he's the one who drove the final humiliating, public stake into what was left of our marriage, I still came out the bad guy.

He was upset, though, that night. I remember walking out of the hospital with him at dawn; he was exhausted and I had my hand tucked into the crook of his arm like I used to. I probably looked pretty self-satisfied from the outside – _I won, he didn't sign_ – as we walked out into the morning together … maybe even smug.

But that confidence was another illusion. Like the skirt. I think I was holding on to him so tightly because even then, the night he didn't sign, I could feel him slipping away from me.

… and that's that. And by _that_ , I mean that's what it's like when every piece in your wardrobe – not to mention every other part of your life – tells a story where the main character has already rewritten his part.

On that note, I give the illusion skirt one last tug and my reflection one last _okay, Addie, I guess we're in this together_ , and head downstairs to face what passes for my life here in Seattle.

..

Someone is watching out for me up there – and by watching out, I actually mean _watching with amusement_ , because despite all the time I wasted upstairs turning around in front of the mirror and pontificating about the size and shape of my derriere, I manage to walk through the lobby at the exact same time as Callie Torres.

Maybe I'll get lucky and she won't see me.

"Addison!"

… oh, right, I almost forgot: I only _get lucky_ in the biblical sense.

"Hey, Callie."

I hope I sound more enthusiastic than I feel.

It's not that I'm not happy to see her – hell, I'm happy just that she's happy to see me. But I'm uncertain, too, not really sure how we're going to play last night with the back and forth in the hotel hallway, shirtless Mark and pantsless Derek and all the awkwardness that went along with it.

"You know, the coffee here's not half bad." Callie grins at me, apparently not uncomfortable at all. She smells fresh and floral, which must be perfume, and she looks awfully put together for someone who got the Sloan Special last night. "The elevators have way too much glass for a girl who doesn't really need to see herself at seven a.m.," she continues, "but the coffee … the coffee is another story."

I let her chat, leading both of us across the marble floor to the espresso bar. It's hissing and steaming and there's already a line of early morning guests. She seems to know the hotel – I guess from her other nights with Mark.

"Is this awkward?" She turns to me now, making a face, and kind of gestures between us. "It's not awkward, right?"

I open my mouth to lie, but I realize it's actually not. I smile with relief, and Callie smiles back.

"Thank god. I am _so_ weak," she says, rolling her eyes.

"It happens to the best of us," I assure her and she laughs. Her eyes have that sparkle I recognize of, well, who got worked over pretty well last night and what can I say? She deserves it. It's not like sleeping with Mark screws with her head, unlike me. Just her body, and Mark Sloan is very, very good at the concept of _just her body_.

I realize she's wearing a different outfit from yesterday – she either packs her work bag with sleepovers in mind or she's been the first woman I know to get Mark Sloan to hand over a drawer. It's possible – in all the time I've spent in his room, I don't think I've ever had cause to look in his dresser.

She seems to notice me looking. "Is there something on my shirt? … killer skirt, by the way," she adds, gesturing to The Illusion.

(Have I mentioned that it's _really_ nice having someone around again who appreciates my clothes without wanting to take them off me?)

"No, there's nothing on your shirt," I tell her quickly. "And … thank you." I pause. "You look good. Put together, I mean."

 _Considering the walk of Sloan shame_ , except I don't say that part out loud.

She laughs, though, getting it. "Yeah, I was back in my room by dawn – I'm really doing this late-stage college thing pretty hard."

My face must show my confusion.

"Oh – I thought you knew. I'm staying here too."

"Staying here – " I'm still confused, as Callie gestures toward the lobby that surrounds us. "Staying here like _living_ here?" My voice squeaks with disbelief.

"Like that, yeah. On seventeen." She winces a little. "I should have just gone back there last night to wash my face, but I was kind of – busy, and I wouldn't have bothered you but I was leaving these mascara trails on the pillowcases and Mark said you were just down the hall and … I feel like I should probably stop talking now." Her voice trails off. "And I'm sorry," she adds.

That's a lot of information to take in at once. I try to sort through it. Callie lives here too, in the Archfield? I've never seen her around, or I guess I wouldn't necessarily have noticed if I did. Admittedly, I've been kind of self-focused since the divorce.

"You live here too."

"I live here too." She makes a face again. "It's a long story. I'll give you all the gory details another time, preferably when we're drinking something stronger than – triple latte, please," she says seamlessly, grinning at the barista, having realized that we're next in line.

I'm glad her mind works so fast in the morning. I still feel jet-lagged. Then I remember the last part of her disclosure. She's sorry. But why?

I ask.

"Hang on." She waits for me to get my coffee and then we kind of move off to the side as if we planned it and end up on either side of large and rather aggressively green potted plant. "Yeah. I'm sorry about last night, I mean."

I'm not sure which part – maybe the eye makeup remover, which I still haven't gotten back and I don't quite trust Mark not to hand off to one of his twentysomething conquests, not really seeing the difference between my products and whatever synthetic drugstore nightmare they brought with them? Or telling Mark that Derek was in my hotel room?

"The code," she says.

"The code." I take a sip of coffee as if the cup holds answers – it doesn't, but it does hold caffeine, which feels almost as good.

"The girl code." Callie flicks some of her long hair over her shoulder.

"You mean sleeping with Mark? You can keep him," I tell her. I'm pretty it sure it sounds lighthearted even though it would take lot more work – and gin – to know if that's really the case.

"Ooh, no, I don't want to keep him. He was yours first."

"Possession is nine tenths of the law," I say without thinking, somewhere in the back of my mind remembering Savvy teasing Weiss while they argued good-naturedly over who was going to put away groceries in the beach house.

"I don't think that's a thing." Callie frowns, taking another sip of her coffee. "Why do people always say that?"

We both smile a little except it's one more land mine reminding me of everything I don't have anymore.

"Seriously, though." She sighs. "I shouldn't have bothered you last night. You were busy."

She pauses meaningfully, and I haven't been friendless for so long that I don't know it means it's my turn to start giving information. I kill some time drinking coffee instead, wondering if I should fake an urgent email.

"You and Shepherd," she says when I don't respond. She sounds interested, but not judgmental.

"He drove me back to the hotel."

"You mentioned that last night." She lifts an eyebrow. "I know he was at the bar with us and I know I was pretty drunk, but I'm fairly sure he was fully clothed then."

"He spilled – something on his pants." I swallow the word _wine_ at the last minute, even if it's no more meaningful in my hotel room than _water._ I wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea.

She nods and then I open my mouth to say – I'm not sure what, something about Mark's reaction to Derek's presence except then, as if summoned by the wicked gods of Seattle coincidence, the man himself is here.

"Talking about me again?"

Ugh. Callie and I exchange a knowing look as Mark strides up, smirking at both of us. He's wearing his leather jacket and his hair is still damp; he's got that extra-swaggery posture that tells me he was in the gym this morning.

"We have much more interesting things to talk about, Sloan," Callie says. Her tone is light, and not unfriendly; then again, we _were_ talking about him, so there's not a whole lot of leg to stand on here.

Mark looks amused. "Who wants a ride?" he asks, spreading his hands. "There's only one front seat, but you ladies can flip a coin … or wrestle for it."

Ugh, Mark is _much_ easier to turn down when I'm sober. And surrounded by witnesses.

"I'm driving myself to work, thank you," I tell him politely.

"And I'm driving myself," Callie agrees. "So that's a no on your … _rides._."

Mark gives her one of those toothy Sloan grins that used to go right through me and I can see the exact moment her resolve starts to weaken.

Ugh, it's not _fair_ having to watch my own mistakes played out in front of me like this.

Callie seems to figure it out, too, looking a little embarrassed, and then Mark makes no secret of the fact that he knows exactly what skirt I'm wearing. He stares just long enough to make me feel like I'm already naked and then bids us both a cheerful good morning before he strolls to the revolving doors, whistling.

I exchange a look with Callie – the patented, universal, _oh my god we both slept with him_ look. She opens her mouth to say something, then I see her gaze lock on the big gold wall clock and she curses softly. "It's late." She points a finger at me as she starts to dash to the door. "I need to give you something – later, okay?"

"…okay," I say to the back of her.

So Callie lives here, too. In this hotel.

I'll be damned.

..

Okay, so my white coat does hide the best part of my skirt, but it still gives me enough of a boost to get me through most of the morning. It's the little things, you know? And here, in Seattle, after Derek and all of that … little things are pretty much all I can hope for.

Especially when you're a virtual hostage to a very frustrated and very pregnant patient.

"Why won't anyone tell me anything _useful?_ "

I give Eleanor Rivers my most sympathetic look, even though I've just spent the last fifteen minutes updating her on the triplets, breaking down the latest information and answering all her questions.

She gives me one of patented downward-tilt annoyed looks in response.

"If you have other questions, Eleanor, I'd be happy to answer them."

"Forget it," she sighs in a put-upon way. "Basically, you're not doing anything."

"Not today, no. That's right." It's a pretty oversimplified way of summarizing the last fifteen minutes, but she's right that there are no procedures on the schedule.

"All these overpaid doctors and you never actually _do_ anything."

She's glaring again.

I'm guessing from her hostility that Colton hasn't shown up yet. Her husband is supposed to be coming today, which she's been announcing with a fanfare that should probably be less _royal wedding_ and more _the emperor has no clothes._

And it sucks. I get it. I don't have to fake the sympathy, not really, and I even get a slightly less hostile glare when I assure her I'll be back to relay all this information to Colton, too, when he shows up.

 _When he shows up._ Let's hope she's not holding her breath – not when she's breathing for four.

On that depressing note, I leave her room with every intention of doing some charting between patients – but my blackberry buzzes, summoning me to the lounge instead.

..

"I _may_ be a tad hungover," Callie admits, looking somewhere between embarrassed and amused. She's propped her hips against the counter where the coffee machine sits, chugging out pots of the sludge that tends to taste as burned out as the doctors who drink it.

"I know the feeling."

Not this morning, thankfully. It's kind of nice not to have a throbbing headache. I wouldn't say I feel _good_ , but again … low bar.

"Yeah, I brought it on myself." Callie sighs. "You know, drowning my troubles and all that, except I can't drink like I used to. I'm getting old."

"You're not getting old." I frown at her. "I'm a lot older than you are."

She looks like she's about to retort but then stops, tips her head back and just takes a few breaths.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She massages her temples. "Just your garden-variety penance for last night's overindulgence. _But_ never mind self-flagellation … how about some coffee?"

She's holding out a white paper bag. When I don't move she nudges it in my direction again and, confused, I take it.

"Open it," she prompts.

I do, reaching inside and pulling out … a mug. A dark blue mug with a grey _S_ on it and a little compass-looking design. There are words, too; it says –

"Mariners." Callie gives me a rueful smile.

Oh, right. A Seattle team. I turn the mug in my hands, puzzled, and then offer it back to her.

"It's for you," she explains patiently.

"For me?"

I think I must sound idiotic, but she doesn't seem bothered.

"Yeah. I know it's kind of lame, but you can consider it a placeholder if you want."

I must still look confused.

"You needed a new mug," Callie says bluntly. "You've been drinking out of that – visitors' thing."

She's right. Of course she's right.

That white mug with the blue _SGH_ , the one sitting on my desk when I signed my contract. It marks me as a stranger here in this hospital, a nobody.

 _Nice mug_ , that's what Derek said the other night when we were sparring halfheartedly in this very lounge, while he drank smugly from his old Bowdoin mug that was so familiar it might as well be another limb. Derek's never had to worry about being a stranger.

I look over at the ledge where the … visitors' thing … is waiting for me, then back at the mug from Callie.

"My options were limited … but it seemed like time was of the essence," she continues. "And, uh, I don't know you that well yet. I know you don't like green peppers in your salad, but that wasn't exactly available on a mug, at least without a lot of lead time. And I know you're not sleeping with Mark Sloan anymore, but surprisingly – considering how many women he's probably already screwed and then pissed off in Seattle – that wasn't available either."

I'm rinsing the new mug as I listen.

"… so I went with sports."

"Baseball," I say as I realize what the Mariners play.

"Yeah. You like baseball?"

Oh, it's a complicated question.

"I know you're from New York," she adds before I can answer. "So that's one more thing I know about you, _but_ there's not a lot of gear around here for the Mets or the Yankees or whatever."

… which is good, because I think a Yankee insignia just might push me over the edge.

"No, this is good." I force a smile. "It's great. I do like baseball … enough to know that it would horrify Derek to see me with a Mariners mug. So it's great."

She blinks and for a minute I wonder if I've been too open. I mean, why does it matter what Derek would think of my mug?

But then she smiles, wide and disarming, and I feel a warm gush in my stomach again – _friends, we're friends_.

"Oh, and you have to let me make last night up to you," she says. "I know you're at the Archfield and you know I'm there and I also know that they have a pretty decent spa, so … what do you think?"

What do I think? I have a brief vision of lounging in a fragrant teak sauna with cucumbers on my eyes, blocking out the world.

"I think I'd like to go right now."

She grins, looking pleased. "Ditto, but I'm due in the OR in … twenty minutes. I'll definitely be done by six, though – meet around seven?"

I just nod, a little dazedly.

"Callie?"

She turns around.

I ask her before I even realize why. "When did you buy the mug?"

And then I know it's because I want to believe it's not some kind of apology for the bar last night, the eye makeup remover in the hotel or the unfortunately way we keep passing Mark back and forth.

"Yesterday morning," she says, "why?"

"No reason." I feel almost shy, embarrassing relief wobbling my legs. "So, um, see you at seven?"

She points a finger at me, grinning. "You'd better."

..

I stand in the lounge for another minute after Callie leaves, drinking coffee out of the blue Seattle Mariners mug. _Spa._ The word is turning over in my head as I remember last night in the hotel room, needling Derek about keeping his own post-marital calendar. _Kathleen's birthday is next week_ , that's what I told him.

It's on my calendar, along with a note the day before to confirm her present.

Her present.

I've been giving Kathleen the same gift certificate to Frederic Fekkai for the last eight birthdays. When you have a classic, there's no need for change. She wants it, she uses it, we meet afterwards for a drink and she pretends she doesn't have kids and I pretend I don't think about _waiting until the right time._ It's tradition.

I was always in charge of that stuff, in my marriage: cards. And gifts.

I signed them from both of us, of course.

 _With love from Addison and Derek._

Not anymore.

Now it's just me.

 _With love from the loneliest divorcee in Seattle._

Suddenly the back of my throat starts tingling. Kath's birthday is in my calendar, of course it is, and what am I supposed to do when the date comes? Not send her gift, her card, not acknowledge it?

I have no idea.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.

I announce this to myself as if Kathleen is actually here and we're teasing her like we used to, _how do you feel about that?_ There are endless jokes when your sister-in-law is a shrink.

I guess she's not my sister-in-law anymore, though. She's a Shepherd and I'm not. I'm Addison Montgomery and she's just … my ex-husband's sister.

The only problem is that _Addison Montgomery_ disappeared from this earth on a warm spring evening in 1994. She was twenty-seven years old, she was a second-year resident, she had no smile wrinkles or eye lines and she had her whole life in front of her. I doubt she'd recognize the old, sad me of today – even if she'd probably like the skirt – and I'm glad she doesn't have to see me.

But yeah, that was the end of Addison Montgomery.

Everything else I've achieved – everything I've done from that day on, everything I've learned, everything I've published, every presentation I've given, every introduction at a patient's bedside or signature on a check, was _Addison Shepherd._

So who the hell is Addison Montgomery?

..

The best part of practicing medicine is that work tends to be too busy for the sort of really high-quality moping my disaster of a life requires.

 _Who the hell is Addison Montgomery?_ I still have no clue. But I'm distracted by patients, at least, by colleagues – even if half of them call me _Dr. Shepherd._ So the adrenaline of treatment, combined with the lure of an impending spa date with a friend (a friend!) … … it's enough to get me through the afternoon and then I'm back in the caucus room with Team Triplets, discussing babies A, B, and C with Derek and Walter Graves once again.

Three of us, three of them.

Walter's brought tapes from a previous procedure, and we set them up while we continue to bat around dates. She's twenty-nine plus right now; Derek's fine with opening her up at thirty-one – of course he is – and willing to try at thirty, but I'm still hoping she can make it to thirty-three. We go back and forth a bit, the three of us.

Babies A and B, sharing a placenta, with their normal CNS systems and their dependence on the same womb as damaged little Baby C with her complex malformation. Anything we do with one affects the others, and anything we _don't_ do affects them too.

In medicine – like in marriage, come to think of it – inaction is action too.

Derek pauses the tape to point out the technique, praising it while he holds a paper cup of coffee in one hand, and Walter brushes off the compliment with genuine modesty, turning the topic of conversation back to the procedure itself.

"It's an excellent learning opportunity," Walter says, "and an unusual one. You'll have interns champing at the bit when they hear about it."

Two things happen then: Derek chokes on a mouthful of his coffee, and I bite the inside of my cheek hard – really hard – to keep from laughing.

Walter pats Derek congenially on the back. "Careful, now," he says.

Yeah. Wouldn't want to bite off more than he can … champ.

(And seriously, if Walter weren't Seattle's most straight-edge surgeon and if I weren't, well, me, I might be turned on just from hearing him say _champing_ instead of chomping. A little linguistic precision goes a long way.)

"Are you all right?" Walter asks.

"I'm fine," Derek says, frowning at me as if the whole thing is my fault. _What?_ he mouths, looking somewhere between offended and annoyed, when he catches my eye.

Marital shorthand for the very necessary question: _what is it you think I've done this time, wife of mine?_ I don't say anything. I'm annoyed with _him_ now, it's true. But it's not like I can tell him that the reason I'm annoyed with him is that I have no idea how I'm supposed to acknowledge his sister's impending birthday. Not when it sounds so unimportant compared to everything else.

Derek is still looking at me expectantly and I shake my head, looking away from that too-familiar tilt of his head and trying to telegraph _drop it_ without saying anything out loud.

He does drop it.

Then he clears his throat. "Actually, I've already discussed the procedure with one of my interns," he announces, "and she's interested in assisting."

Seriously?

"Ahead of the game, that's terrific. Which intern?" Walter asks, sincerely.

"Yang," I say quickly before Derek can answer, in my most innocent tone, ignoring the dirty look he shoots me. "It must be Yang. See, Derek has a thing for surly brunettes."

"It would be a nice change from surly redheads," he mutters.

"Yang, eh?" Walter repeats with interest, apparently picking up on none of the oh-so-subtle post-divorce undertones.

(Undertones, though? Really? They're more like overtones at this point.)

"Yang. Well. That's a fine idea. She shows a lot of promise," Walter is saying now and Derek glares at me again. "I didn't realize she was so interested in neonatal and … am I missing something?" Walter asks now, sounding puzzled, looking from one of us to the other.

"No, of course not. Dr. Montgomery just finds herself very amusing," Derek says tightly, directing his words to Walter Graves. "You'll have to forgive her."

Funny choice of words when _he_ still hasn't forgiven me … but I guess I take his point. Still, the _Dr. Montgomery_ stings.

After last night's conversation, after everything, it stings.

He can't know that, though, not if I can help it.

"Yes, please forgive me, Walter." I give him my best deb smile before I turn to address Derek: "Go ahead … Dr. Shepherd. Tell Walter which intern you really meant."

Derek shakes his head at me, just slightly, which if we were married would be a sort of half-warning, half- _we'll deal with this later ..._ but we're not married.

Not anymore.

Walter is looking from one of us to the other again and now I feel a little guilty. Walter Graves never asked to be caught between us. At least Derek and I are reaping what we sowed here; Walter never sowed anything except actual professionalism that seems to have escaped every other surgeon here … so, yeah.

"He means Meredith Grey," I say since Derek hasn't responded. "She's very good," I add with some measure of guilt, since hey, it's true, but I can't seem to stop being petty, so I add quietly, "including in the OR."

"Seriously?" Derek glares at me.

"What?" I ask defensively. "She has a good manner with patients."

It's just my luck that I'm actually trying to dig myself _out_ of the hole here, but it comes out sounding enough like _bedside manner_ that Derek flushes visibly and I'm thinking we probably crossed friendly banter a few miles back.

"I just meant – "

"We all know what you meant," Derek interrupts coolly. "Did you have a better idea?" he continues, cutting me off again when I try to edge in: "Please, share it with the group. Assuming there's an intern left here who's willing to work with you."

Ooh, low blow.

You might think he's throwing a guilt trip about the little lie of omission before Hannah Fowler's procedure, but Derek's nothing if not a multitasker: I know him well enough to know he's adding in some extra layers here: Izzie Stevens and our aborted mentor-mentee relationship, such as it was, and then the general tendency of everyone in Seattle to want nothing to do with me.

 _We get it, Derek, no one likes me. You don't like me so much you divorced me. It's old news, no matter how many stupid moments of weakness I have when even for just a second when you're there and you seem like … you._

"Actually," I say with as much dignity as I can manage, "I've also spoken with an intern who's interested in the procedure."

Derek makes a faint noise somewhere between disgust and disbelief.

"The more, the merrier," Water says, somehow still managing a hearty tone. He gives me an encouraging nod. "Which intern?"

"Alex Karev. He's shown some real promise in my specialty."

"Which specialty is that?" Derek asks, very quietly, for my benefit only.

I guess it hasn't escaped his notice either that Karev's a bit of a mini-Sloan. It's my turn to blush now.

"Well, this year's cohort is very strong," Walter says in a tone of neutral positivity like he's interviewing medical students. "I'm sure there's room for everyone."

Oh, he'd be surprised how small an OR can feel.

Derek and I are studiously avoiding each other's gaze and I just stand there, staring at the HIPAA chart on the wall, before Walter – who's apparently had enough divorce counseling for the day – tactfully moves us back to the topic at hand.

..

We get along fine when we're actually talking about the triplets.

The three of us go back and forth for a while longer, jotting some notes on the tapes and then plotting our options on the software that spins out various scenarios – we're going day by day here, update by update, that's how it works. We agree on a daily course, in these team meetings, and we move on.

Easy.

Right?

Except Walter gets paged out of the caucus room as we're wrapping up and then it's just me, alone with Derek.

I'm trying to figure out if I'd lose too much face by slinking sideways out the door to avoid him – admittedly, I'm a little ashamed of pushing things earlier, especially after last night – but he starts in before I can.

"Really, Addison?" Derek has that haughty-judgmental expression on now that I know so well. "Was that necessary?"

He doesn't have to say _Meredith_ for me to know he's annoyed that I brought her up. That she doesn't deserve to get dragged through whatever we were doing in front of Walter.

And I can't even be annoyed that he's so – protective of her, or whatever, because he's right.

And I hate that he's right … and I hate that he knows that I know that.

I should just apologize and move on and _friends don't let friends mock each other's ex-mistresses in front of their esteemed colleagues_ or whatever.

That would be the right response.

The healthy one.

So you can probably guess which I choose.

"' _Really, Addison_ ,' what?" I ask, repeating his words with scorn. "What's the issue here? You think throwing your ex-girlfriend a rare fetal surgery is going to make her your girlfriend again?"

(Look, I did stop at two glasses of wine last night, but not _all_ my decisions can be healthy.)

Derek's eyes at my words. It's classic him; he dishes it out but he's still managed to be surprised to get it dished back. I wait for him to tell me in some vaguely-less-blunt way what a bitch I am … but then he surprises me.

"She's my _ex_ -girlfriend?" he asks, his tone deceptively mild, leaning just enough on the _ex_ to make the point.

Okay, I wasn't expecting that one. Point, Derek.

It's targeted enough to stop me, a little.

"You're the one who said you weren't dating her." I feel my words start to tumble around each other, not liking how my voice sounds. "You said you weren't dating, that … ."

I stop talking. I know I sound like an idiot and I don't want to ramble, not to him. "So that means she's your girlfriend again?" I ask.

"I didn't say that." Derek has the nerve to look annoyed with me again. He exhales audibly, half-put-upon and half plain-old-tired. "Addison – "

So now I'm Addison again, just _Dr. Montgomery_ when he's pissed at me in front of Walter, good to know.

" – did I miss something?"

He missed a lot, obviously, but that's not the issue right now.

"Is there some reason you're being so hostile – other than your natural charms?"

The thing is, I get it.

I do.

I know last night was different. Callie wasn't the only one who was weak in that hotel. Derek was there and his eyes were so soft and I was _this close_ to saying something stupid – or worse, doing something stupid. But now? Here, in the cold light of day under his cold gaze with the weight of everything I've lost, from that stupid spa birthday reminder to being the one Derek looks out for. I don't want him to be nice to me. I'm not sure I want him to be mean to me, either ... but I think I might prefer it right now.

I'm so tired of feeling stripped raw when we breathe the same air.

He's just standing there, waiting for an answer. It's a caucus room and not a supply closet, not a hotel or even the four claustrophobic walls of a trailer, but why does it feel like we always end up here?

I open my mouth to say – I don't even know what, but I'm _tired_. I'm so tired, and there's no more wind in my sails.

"Forget it."

"No, please go on." Derek's tone is clipped as he gathers speed; I guess my exhaustion has energized him. We used to take turns carrying on the fight, like this, when we were married. Back then, I don't think I realized how much it took out of us. "Let's hear all your excellent relationship with the interns whose reputations you were happy to risk to settle a score."

So we're back to that again: the standoff outside Hannah Fowler's room before her termination procedure, the one Derek didn't know the hospital authorized.

I draw myself up a little taller than my full height, even knowing he's just going to do the same in return. "The interns' reputations were never on the line, Derek, and you know it."

"But _they_ didn't know it, did they? What would have been the fun in that?"

I don't even understand it. Why we're fighting when things were so – calm, between us, yesterday. I just know we are.

And my hackles are up. Fun? Really? I glare right back at him.

"If you think any of that was fun for me … then you weren't paying attention. But then what else is new?"

He shakes his head, annoyed. "This again. Doesn't the divorce mean you have to stop nagging me? Or is that why you want Karev to assist," he continues before I can defend myself, raising his eyebrows, "he gives you _attention?_ "

There's enough awkward truth in there to sting, even though I'm fairly certain he's just shooting in the dark. When all else fails, call me a whore, that's how it goes. He can't possibly know – no. There's no way.

But I have to come out swinging just in case.

"Look, Derek, maybe this is all fun and games to you, but we're talking about an extraordinarily delicate fetal surgery here – not some – _consolation prize_ for your girlfriend because you finished before she did."

It's a touch more graphic than I'd usually go, and in my experience it's most likely to be patently false too. The things is, he's not going to be offended my slights about his prowess; we both know they're hot air. He has to be the good guy though, Derek, so the suggestion he's not a _giver?_ … that won't go over well.

His face proves my prediction was right.

"Excuse me." He doesn't raise his voice, but his tone is even colder – if possible. "You'd be wise to keep our … personal lives … off the table."

"Like you did?" I feel reckless all of a sudden, full of hot anger. "You kept it _on_ the table, as I recall, or do exam rooms not count?"

His face darkens; I'm a little surprised myself – I don't throw prom in his face, not like this, and it doesn't feel particularly good to do it.

Some of the anger dissipates, leaving an ache in its place.

"Derek – "

"No." He cuts me off with a shake of his head, his voice is tight. "You're not going to – "

But the door bursts open behind me before he can finish.

"Dr. Montgomery!"

I swivel around, a little surprised again to hear that name, my correct-post-divorce name. It makes me think the skirt isn't the only illusion that's working today – and then I'm not thinking about it at all because the voice who called my name, the intern who's standing in the doorway with his chest rising fast under his scrubs like he ran here, is Alex Karev.

"It's the Rivers triplets," Karev says urgently before I can ask what's going on, and my heart sinks before he even finishes his pronouncement. "They're in distress."

Derek and I exchange one wordless glance before all three of us shoulder out of the room, moving as fast as we can toward babies A, B, and C.

* * *

 _To be continued._ _These two drive me crazy - they were doing so well, but it wouldn't be season 3 whiplash without a little ... well, whiplash. Thank you for reading - as always - and I hope you'll review because I love reading your thoughts, and because Addison isn't the only one out there who runs on validation. Now excuse me while I go balance getting work done on this grey Tuesday with my unofficial other job: crying over Addek. Keeps a girl busy ..._

 _(PS: the grey skirt from "Into You Like a Train" is 100% authentic, for anyone not shallow enough to have already noticed)_


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